


why they lost their minds and fought the wars

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: But also, Crack, F/M, Fake Pregnancy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Pining, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, all the good tropey stuff basically, also?, i see all your fake dating aus and i raise you a:, maybe crack?, my official induction into fic writer hall of fame i think!, so yall dont go into this with too high expectations, some random trauma so i could be fake deep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: The problem is not having to fake date Bellamy. It’s easy enough. They’re close enough friends they can sell it, and have plenty of history to fall back on. They can read each other, even from across a room, and when they want to be extra sickenly, finish each other's sentences.It's not even having to fake pretend to be carrying his baby. For all they know, the pregnancy is still in it's early stages so all she has to really do is lay of the booze and raw meat -- which is, surprisingly, not That Hard. Having a convenient excuse to go home at all times is just an added benefit.The real problem here is the fact Murphy just won’t, for the life of her, fuckingdie.





	why they lost their minds and fought the wars

**Author's Note:**

> cw stop safeandsound13 she done really lost it this rodeo :(
> 
> dont even know what this is tbh oomfs just talks about brolarke babies so much the wheels start to spin on their own by now and i was like fake dating: ball of pink worms, fake pregnancy: GALAXY BRAIN. whats next? arranged marriage but make it arranged pregnancies? wait....
> 
> anyway, dont take it too seriously? and if you do and have feelings about instead of telling me tell jason rothenberg this was STILL a better love story than his ego standing in the way of our edgy bellarke endgame, mwah

**why they lost their minds and fought the wars**

* * *

Murphy just refuses to fucking die. Any other person and she'd respect them for it, but this is the guy who offered the kid she was babysitting at fourteen years old a joint and caused her to get banned from UrbanSitter for life. Besides, she deserves every penny of the inheritance he'll be leaving her. Every single one. She's worked hard for it.

John Murphy is the kind of cousin she was forced to spend time with a lot growing up, and  _because_  it was forced, they never really gave it a shot — they hated each other on principle. At one of their aunt's birthday parties, Clarke called him a pussy after beating him at Mario Kart, and he cut her hair off in her sleep the night before her mom's wedding. Thank God she looked relatively cute even with a pixie cut, but she still can't look at a single picture they took to this day. She still has the ' _whose the pusy now?_ ' note he left on her pillow like a psycho.

So.  _Those_  kind of cousins. To this day she still doesn't see the correlation between fucking with her self-esteem for a good six months and a half-hearted cat-themed insult for losing a videogame.

So when out of the blue, he announces he has lung cancer and is dying her first, habitual reaction is to laugh. Clarke has long distanced herself from Arkadia and the people who live in it, including her family, but for some reason — even though she hated John Murphy with a passion — every three months they tagged each other in some lame post; Clarke asking him if he committed this one unsolved gruesome murder in 1923 and Murphy tagging her in a Buzzfeed article about how to keep a man or woman. It wasn't even a love to hate each other kind of thing; they hated each other, and they actively wanted to remind the other person of the fact.

It takes her a week after her mom's morbid phone call to text him. Only because she's bored. Their last exchange is from may, 2013.

**half gay cousin [09:21 PM]**

> So you're actually dying then?

It's hard to feel sorry for the guy who got a pity invite to her sixteenth birthday party from her mother, proceeded to make out with her elderly neighbour Diana and then stole her newly gifted car and rammed it into a tree. All her friends saw, and Clarke still cared about popularity back then. It scarred her forever.

**Murphy [10:39 PM]**

> cum to fammily bbq this sunday or else i know ur gonna b here four the summer

Arkadia might be a shithole, but for three weeks every summer it's  _her_  shithole. It has a beach, is relatively quiet and boring, costs zero to no money because she gets to leech off her mom and step-dad the whole trip, and she runs absolutely no risk of running into an old patient while minding her own business at the grocery store. What more could a girl want? Not to see her evil cousin for the entirety of her trip, she thinks for one.

**half gay cousin [10:48 PM]**

> Give me one good reason

**Murphy [02:23 AM]**

> i'll be givin away all my mony

**half gay cousin [07:31 AM]**

> Gee the whole seven bucks? I'm busy on sunday

He sends her a screenshot of his bank-account two days later. Clarke nearly chokes on her breakfast — coffee is all her stomach can handle in the morning — fingers already tapping away to reverse image search the photo on google.

Her best friend Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her from across the table, a quiet buzz of other customers talking and eating surrounding them. The idiot is making the newspaper's daily crossword puzzle for some reason. "You okay?"

**Murphy [08:12 AM]**

> u think id get cancer and not milk it for all its worth? croawdfunding is a beuatiful thing .

The thing is — Clarke doesn't even  _want_  his money. Knowing him, he actually robbed a bank and this is all just a hoax to frame her for it. But.  _But_.

Over two years ago she did a mission for doctors without borders, met the meanest, bravest little thing named Madi, who had been an orphan since she was 8 years old, fell in love with her, and has been her sponsor ever since. They skype every week, whenever it's possible, and Clarke makes sure to send her lots of care packages. For the past year and half, she's been trying to get enough funding to build a hospital in Madi's town, to make life for her and the countless of others like her better. She doesn't  _want_  it, but she needs that money.

Clarke huffs out loud, ignoring his question, distractedly re-reading the message that makes her phone beep moments later.

**Murphy [08:17 AM]**

> who ever wants to win needs to have a stayble partner tho i dont wnat one single person to have the sole say in wher e the mony goes

It's his way of telling her that if she wants it, she'll never get it. Anyone in her family knowing the reason why, would say she deserves the money the most, even the bigoted parts, because helping orphans helps them get into heaven. Yet, Murphy put in the one clause he knew she wouldn't be able to fulfill since her last two romantic partners died tragically and she's given up on dating ever since. It's his fun way of rubbing her trauma in her face. She's halfway through telling him to die painfully in all caps when Bellamy clears his throat again.

Her eyes flick away from her phone to meet his. Simply, she offers, "It's my dumb cousin."

His brow furrows together as he purses his lips in thought. "The hot one or the one who's sick?"

Clarke glares at him. Echo — the one he met at her uncle's third wedding she forced him to come along to a few years back under the guise of an open bar — is a whole other, republican side of the family she doesn't want to get into right this second.

"The dying one," she scoffs, throwing her phone on top of the table maybe a little too recklessly. She winces at the loud smack it makes, but is too annoyed to actually check if the screen cracked. "He has a bunch of money but he won't give it to me."

"Damn," he hisses, leaning back in his chair as he scratches at his temple absently. "The body's not even cold."

"That's not the point," Clarke argues, but most of the heat is lost because she's smiling at his stupid joke. "He's not going to be able to do anything with it from his special place in hell. He might as well let me use it for something good."

His eyes soften, and he leans his forearms on top of the table, newspaper crunching noisily underneath his skin. "You want to use it for the hospital?"

She nods, corner of her lips curving up in a sad smile, before she slouches in her seat, sighing loudly. She twists the decorative ring around her middle finger absently, just to have something to do with her hands as she goes over the options in her head. After a moment she shrugs, offering, half-desperate, "I could hire an escort, pretend to be dating him?"

Bellamy cocks a single judgemental eyebrow. "I feel like I've forced you to watch enough romcoms to figure out how this is going to go."

Clarke huffs, exasperated. "Do you seriously think I should let my fear of commitment keep me from getting that inheritance?"

"You should definitely rob the dying person blind," he replies, without skipping a beat, brown eyes soft just for her. "But I'm pretty sure you can do better than an escort."

"I'm not going to be  _robbing_ him," she justifies — mostly for him, but also a little for herself — crossing her arms over her chest. "Just a little fraud never hurt anyone right?"

He sighs, sliding his palms over the side of his head and connecting his fingers on the crown of his head as he leans back again. He says the next part like it's normal, "If you're going to fake date anyone, it should be me."

Clarke smiles despite herself, affectionate. "Best friends pretending to date? I feel like I've seen this one before, too."

"Oh," he smirks, that arrogant one she's seen him use on one girl too many in dark bars, crowded clubs, and even college libraries, "Don't worry — I'm already in love with you at this point, but I've made peace with the fact you're out of my league."

It's nothing new. He's a dick. He likes to make fun of her, push her buttons, get her pale skin to flush an angry pink. He says shit like that way too often, and yet. Her heart flutters weirdly in her chest.

That's nothing new either. Seriously when she says she's seen this one before, she means it.

When she and Bellamy met in college, they got off on the wrong foot. Always arguing in class even though he was her TA, him always passive aggressively calling her princess outside of class to poke fun at her rich family, her befriending all his friends out of sheer pettiness just to make a point they would eventually like her better and abuse the fact he's bad at sharing, even going out of their way to casually meet up at frat parties just to talk shit about each other to each other the whole night. It was kind of hot.

They invented the whole 'will they/won't they' spiel when they finally accepted they really didn't  _hate_  each other — for example, he wasn't  _just_  an asshole, he was also thoughtful, funny, empathetic, drop dead gorgeous — and she realized she actually kind of liked him and she thought he might have liked her back for a while there too.

(They kissed once, drunkenly — after a victorious beer pong game in the middle of a dark kitchen, two cold beer bottles pressed in between them, until their friend Maya walked in — but it was right before he graduated, and they never spoke of it again.)

But for some reason neither of them ever made the first move, the timing always seemed off, and they eventually settled on just being friends. It worked out in their favor. They're still friends almost ten years later. Best friends.

In fact, it's the whole reason she should tell Bellamy no.  _Hell no_. The lines have always been messy between the two of them, and she shouldn't try to make it even more complicated, not when their relationship means so much to her.

But, then her phone lights up with a notification from some pinterest baking tag she's following at an desperate attempt to convince herself she can make anything else besides mac and cheese, revealing her screensaver, a photo of a smiling Madi — blue eyes bright and happy and  _healthy_  — with some kids from her class, and she figures it's worth the risk.

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it. Toeing the fine line between sounding too eager and too dreadful, she settles on stammering out, "You would seriously do that?"

"Not for you, obviously," he grins, but it's soft, fond, not the way he would grin if he wasn't serious. "For the sick children."

"For the sick children," she repeats, stupid, trying to gauge if that really is all there is too it.

"And the free holiday of course."

"Aren't you —" Clarke sighs, running a hand through her hair. How is she supposed to ask him about the possible  _romantic_ implications to this without making it weird? "Like —" She makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, throwing her head back slightly. "I mean —"

"Use your words, Griffin."

She glares at him, even though the only effect it has on him is that it turns the smirk playing on his mouth even more smug. "I mean — we're friends. If we want to sell this we're gonna have to do non-friendly stuff like, hold hands. Use pet names." She takes a sip of her coffee quickly, forcing herself not to wince as it burns her tongue, furiously ignoring the way her neck must be splotchy red by now, forcing out, " _Kiss_."

Amused, he replies, "I've been in relationship before, Clarke, I know how they work." He frowns at the look on her face, worrying her bottom lip cautiously. "If you don't want to do it, just say so."

"No!" She blurts out, then deflates. She's not upset with him. She's just a little  _petrified_. Swallowing hard, she continues, "I mean, it's not that I don't want to. It's just that I don't want to ruin our friendship. It's good. You know. What we have."

She blushes, but she refuses to be embarrassed about it. He really is her best friend in the entire world. He was there when she really needed him. During the hard shit, like when she lost it on Wells' anniversary or when Lexa died, and even the dramatic trivial shit, like thinking about dropping out of nursing school after failing a single assignment while on her period. She doesn't want to lose him, too.

He's pretended to be her boyfriend here and there before, for like five seconds, if a guy at a bar wouldn't take no for an answer, or if they gave out free snacks at the cinema for couples during valentine's day. Three weeks is a whole different league.

"Shit," Bellamy curses, conspiratorially as he leans closer again, even making a show of looking around to see if nobody is listening on. Sometimes she wants to punch that cocky look right off his face. "You really want us to vow not to fall in love right now, because I'm  _pretty_  sure that's romcom 101 on how —"

"Shut up," she snaps, cutting him off as she reaches forward to push against his shoulder. He hardly budges.

"It's gonna be like three days tops, Clarke," he argues and after all these years, she still envies him for being able to take everything as it goes. She feels like she needs to be in control of every single detail or she is going to explode. "After that we can just convince him with selfies and cheesy instagram quotes." He raises his brow, slightly tilting his head. "How much proof could he possibly want?"

She agrees, eventually. He's right. They'll just have to go to a few family events together in the three weeks they're in Arkadia. Most of the family that follows her on social media already know Bellamy, because he's a frequent flyer on there, and the ones that don't have probably heard about him from her mom or have seen him at one of the other family parties she's dragged him to.

Despite popular belief, it's not hard to sell ' _friends to lovers_ ' believably. Probably why it's a bad idea to start with, but Clarke trusts Bellamy more than she trusts herself and if he says they can handle it, they can.

He even tolerates the fact she wants to drive to Arkadia herself, even though it's an eighteen hour drive. He tolerates it, because he knows one of the things she doesn't do is planes. After Finn — she tried, she did, but she can't relinquish control to someone else for hours on an end, not in a way that isolated, especially if she has literally nothing else to do but wait. If she drives herself, whatever happens is in her hands. Or she feels like that is more true, at least.

(Finn was her first boyfriend when she was seventeen. He went to the same private school as her, only he was there on a scholarship. He was cute, charming. All the girls wanted to be his girlfriend, but he only wanted her. It was flattering.

He was her first love.

One night, they went out to see a movie and when they took a shortcut through a shoddy looking alley, they got robbed at gunpoint. She was forced to get down on her knees, and she kept telling Finn to just  _shut up_ , but then he tried to pull a hero move and the youngest of the three men — the kid holding the gun with a shaky grip, looking younger than some of the freshman at her school — accidentally pulled the trigger. He looked more shocked than she did.

She begged them to let her call the cops, promised to give them anything, what she had on her, anything they wanted from her parents, but they let him bleed out. They tried to take her father's watch before she left, but absolutely delirious with grief, covered in her boyfriend's blood, she refused. In turn, they beat her face to a pulp. She spend six weeks in the hospital, jaw wired shut, unable to talk, unable to process anything, unable to have —  _control_. She has to be in control.

Later, she found out he had a whole other girlfriend at his old school. It didn't make it any less horrible, even made her more mad at the whole situation. How could she be upset with a dead person? What did that say about her? Eventually she befriended the girl, the ' _other woman_ ', and even though she lived three hours away, they managed to build a firm friendship over AIM and their strict no bullshit policy, just speaking their truths, no sugar-coating. Her first actual friend. (Wells didn't count. She kind of just got him at birth.) Clarke at least was proud of that, if even sometimes she still woke up in a panic sweat, feeling the gravel dig into her palms, the muzzle of a gun pressed against her temple, could taste the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.)

She texted Murphy back after the breakfast she had with Bellamy, and instead of the 'choke slowly' she had half typed out, she informed him she would be at the BBQ. With her boyfriend. He replied with a single clown emoji.

Clarke lies to her mom, too, because she simply cannot risk her mom or Marcus spilling her secret and taking away the only opportunity she has at getting enough funding for the hospital. She'll tell her the truth over email once she's safely back at her own apartment in three weeks, because that's mostly how she and her mom communicate. Her dad used to be their buffer, so when he died and she married someone else, times were rough for Clarke and all her teen angst.

The only problem with that is that they have to pretend more frequently for longer times. She thinks she can handle it, they can handle it. That being best friends is not that much different from being a couple, just less — kissing and shit. That is until they arrive late Saturday night and her mom informs her they can share the bed in the guest bedroom.

"I thought I could just sleep in my old room," Clarke states, vague, half-shocked, too tired from their trip to come up with any other way on how to sell she doesn't want to share a bed with her  _boyfriend_.

"Don't be silly," her mom smiles, as she steps back from hugging Bellamy hello after he returns with the last suitcase from the car. "I know you're not a kid anymore."

This is the exact reason she can't  _really_  talk to her mom. She is trying to be her friend to make up for all the years they lost, not her parent. A lot of the time it's cool, right now it's horrific. And she can't even say anything about it, because they've had the argument her mom gets into her business too much about every time she comes home. Figures it's this time she decides to actually listen. Maybe Marcus finally got her to go to therapy with him. (He's a therapy enthusiast. He thinks everyone should have a therapist.)

"It's okay, Mrs. Kane. If you're not comfortable with it, I don't mind —" Bellamy interjects, cooly, barely glancing over at Clarke.

She waves him off, brushing some imaginary dust off Bellamy's shoulder. "Nonsense. We're all adults here, it's just a bed." Her mom tilts her head, mockingly warns him, "And call me Abby."

Clarke looks up at Bellamy warily, but if he minds, she can't read it on his face. He shrugs, half-assed. Her mom goes another octave higher, which tells her she's trying her absolute hardest to impress her boyfriend. "Talking about sleeping, it's probably been a long drive for you two, hasn't it? You must be tired."

It tells her this isn't actually Abby trying to not mind Clarke's business. It's her minding Clarke's business even harder. Like she's scared he might drop her daughter if Abby isn't actually perfect, like she's scared Clarke will end up alone and depressed and that's the worst thing that could possibly happen. Not the depressed part, because they don't speak about that ever, but the alone part.

Clarke tightens her jaw, bends down to pick up her bag and suitcase. Coldly, and avoiding her mom's gaze, she replies, "Yeah. I think we're going to turn in for the night."

"Okay, honey," she calls after them as they make their way up the stairs, sounding vaguely worried but not like she actually knows how to deal with that worry. Her mother is an amazing doctor, but she's horrible at comfort that doesn't have to do with physical sickness. "If you need anything, you know where to—" Clarke slams the door shut. Bellamy doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she tells him as she drops her bag on her bed, kicking her suitcase somewhere into the general vicinity of the closet before she angrily starts unbuttoning her jean jacket, leaving her just in her black halter-top.

He places his own bag on the desk, sends her a skeptical look. "For what?"

Clarke shrugs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This whole situation I guess."

"Hey. I'm  _totally_ invested in your family drama after listening you complain about it for all these years," he retorts — which earns him a humoured scoff at least — shrugging off his own jacket and hanging it over the desk chair neatly. He sounds awfully chill about the whole thing. "Besides, like your mom said, it's just a bed. We've slept together on a couch before. I'm sure this isn't much different."

"God," she groans, falling on top of the million pillows and layer of faux fur on top of the bed, crossing her arms over her chest. Her already too short top rides up. "What are you even getting out of this?"

"I like Madi," he reasons, leaning back against the desk and running a hand through his messy hair. "She's a good kid. And even if she wasn't — she deserves decent healthcare. They all do."

It makes her feel better, at least. To know he's not just doing this out of favor for her. After a moment, the bed dips as he lays down beside her. He stifles a yawn. It's quiet for a while, except for him tapping his fingers on his stomach.

"She's trying, you know?" Bellamy offers, making Clarke huff as she stares up the ceiling. She wishes she could stop holding the past against her mom, but it's hard when she keeps pulling the same shit. Infantilizing her, undermining her self-efficacy, pretending like at any second she might snap in half.

"She shouldn't have to try at being a mom."

"She's  _being_  a mom. She just wants you to be happy," he presses, annoyingly. He always has to twist everything around. It's good for her usually, but right now she just wants to be mad. "Her definition just doesn't match up to yours."

Her mom thinks she needs a significant other to be happy, that's true.

"It's not that I —" she sighs, heavily, turning her head on the pillow to look at him. "I know she's scared I'll end up single and lonely. It's not like — that's not what I want, but I'm not going to force it. I'm happy by myself. I'm doing fine."

After Lexa died during her senior year of college, which is almost six years ago, she's had flings here and there, but nothing serious. Some called it a fear of commitment, which maybe it was. But, it was also this deep rooted intrinsic fear that everyone she touched eventually suffered the consequence. Her dad wanted to make the world a better place for her. Finn tried to protect her. Wells suffered because he tried to hold on for her. Lexa was on her way to see her.

 _Of course_  she wants what other people have, someone to share her life with, to call home. But it's not worth a panic attack in a restaurant bathroom during a first date, or not sleeping for days on an end after someone shows the vaguest semblance of actual feelings for her. After a while she just figured if it was meant to be, it would be. Something would come along, and it would stick. In the meantime, she was fine on own. She got by. She had her work, and her friends, Bellamy.

"It's not me you have to convince," he says, quietly. She hums in response, sucking in her bottom lip.

"You'll never be lonely, you know that, right?" He prompts suddenly, turning his head as well, then smirks, deliberate, "You'll always have Raven."

She elbows him in the ribs, choking on half a laugh. She knows what he's doing. And it's working. "Like you're ever going to quit stalking me." If she doesn't reply to a text within two minutes, he's dialing her number and already halfway through filling it a missing person's report.

"Stalking you, huh?" He pinches her side, and she yelps, swatting him away.

"Seriously," she chokes out, half-laughing, as she sends him a playful look, "It's like you're obsessed with me. Practically jumped at the chance to be my fake boyfriend."

" _Platonic_  boyfriend for charity," he corrects her with a grin, then sits up, nodding towards the bathroom. "You mind if go get ready for bed first? I'm wrecked."

"Knock yourself out," she says, then blinks at his retreating from for a second, trying to figure out why the use of the word 'platonic' just now stung, sudden and sharp and completely unexpected. She already was  _well_  aware of the fact.

Telling herself it's a one-off, sleep deprived, hormonal, post-emotional conversation bodily reaction, she throws open her suitcase, pulling out whatever she needs for the night, figuring she'll unpack in the morning.

Turns out sleeping in a bed is  _very_  different from sleeping on a couch, mainly because there's more space to move around. In the morning, she ends up with her cheek pressed against his bare back, her arm slung over his waist.

The first half-asleep thought she has waking up is that  _he's warm_ and  _firm_ and  _nice_  and a little  _sticky_ _._  Luckily she manages to peel herself off him without waking him up and embarrassing herself. He turns in his sleep and her heart stops at the sight of the soft, relaxed look on his face, and doesn't start again until he lets out a soft snore.

By the time she gets out of the shower, he's awake, settled behind his laptop on her desk, shirtless and with his hair sticking up every which way. Checking his work email, or trying not to contact his sister who's currently on the other side of the world on an impromptu trip with her boyfriend that's lasted for a year and half now; Clarke's not entirely sure. She tries to ask about Octavia  _just_  enough. She cares about Octavia in a way she cares about her as an extent of Bellamy. She is not exactly interested in what Octavia does or doesn't do. They manage to coexist, and that's it.

Clarke clears her throat, momentarily stopping toweling down her hair. "Shower's yours, if you want."

He looks up with a frown, then it fades at the sight of her. He snorts, gaze running down her body. "Nice legs."

First, she looks down at herself and the towel she's clad in. When she stepped outside the bathroom she was all ' _he's seen my legs before, they're just legs, what's the big deal_ ', but right now she wants to hide under the covers and wipe the look on his face from her memory. He always has to make fun of her.

She powers through it, rolling her eyes as she throws the towel for her hair on top of the bed, patting his shoulder as she passes him by. "I left it on for you so my mom can think about us showering together over her breakfast croissant."

He groans, half snickering as he closes his laptop with a click and shoves the desk chair back. "I can see you're working on letting it go, babe."

She knows he says it to play off on her whole ' _showering together is a couple-y thing_ ', but her pulse still speeds up and her stomach still flips as she keeps her back turned to him, flipping him off over her shoulder as she rummages through her suitcase for something to wear. His responding chuckle is almost as bad as the ' _babe_ '.

Before they go over to Murphy's parents house, Clarke decides to show Bellamy around town a little. Both so she has a convenient excuse for them to take their own car so they can leave whenever they want, and for her to not have to face her mother for the  _whole_ day. She's trying to ease back into it a little.

She wants to show him the art shop she spend a lot of her time as a teenager, but since it's Sunday it's closed, which she would have figured out sooner if it wasn't for the fact she was still thrown by waking up pressed up against her best friend and the visceral bodily reaction she had to him  _jokingly_  calling her babe. She's just confused why she's having thoughts about everything all of a sudden, overthinking everything she does and says to him. They get some coffee and decide to just walk around the local park for a while, look at the ducks by the pond, sit down beside each other on a bench in complete silence, that sort of stuff.

"You okay?" He asks, after five minutes of muteness, one elbow hanging over the back of the bench, body turned towards her. He's never been good with long silences.

"Yeah," she sighs, rubbing a hand over her face tiredly before fixating her gaze on one of the baby ducks flopping around in the water. "It's just weird being back here."

"You come back here every summer," he reasons, petulant.

"I know that," she bites back, coffee cup cradled so tightly in between her fingers it almost dents, before she pushes out another deep sigh, shoulders deflating. "I just never brought anyone home."

Last time a boy was in her house was Finn. She kept Lexa as far away from this town as possible, which in the end didn't even help. Before, for the weddings and the funerals and the anniversaries she'd blackmail Bellamy to come to, they'd just stay in a hotel. Seperate rooms, too.

Bellamy puts his hand on the junction of her shoulder and neck the farthest away from him, squeezes softly. "If you want to break it off, any of it, at any time, just say the word."

"Thanks." It's nice knowing the option is there regardless. She glances over at him from the corner of her eye, amused, his hand dropping back down. "But I don't see how you can pull a fake relationship off on your own."

The corners of his lip turn up just slightly. "You'd be surprised at how charming I can be."

She laughs, leaning her forehead on his shoulder briefly. She's not so worried anymore. She was just being weird before. She is going to will herself not to do that anymore. "As long as you get me that money."

For some reason ' _Don't Cha'_  is playing from some bluetooth speaker by the picnic tables as they walk in, almost her entire family pausing in the middle of whatever they were doing to judge and scrutinize her and her boyfriend accordingly. She makes a beeline for the drinks table, pulling Bellamy along. On the way there she waves over to Murphy, in a wheelchair beside the bounce house his parents always get for the little children in the family, who just flips her off in retaliation.

First uncle she runs into tells her he's glad she's decided to ' _go back to men_ ' and Bellamy gets extra props for both allowing her to dig her nails into his palm and for calmly telling the uncle ' _well, that was incredibly biphobic of you, Richard_ ' with a sugary sweet smile on his face, fully well knowing his name was Carl considering he introduced himself three seconds ago. Power move that shuts him right up.

 _God, it's good to be back_ , Clarke bitterly thinks to herself, knocking back her first cup of cheap wine cooler that tastes like shit, but is going to have to do the job for today. She should be far above using alcohol as a crutch, but oh, how it does the job every time.

It's not all bad. Most family members are happy to see her, congratulate her on her new boyfriend, ask her about her job, how she's doing, the weather, taxes, that kind of stuff. Some of them that know her better comment about how ' _it was a long time coming_ ' between the two of them, Clarke trying not to freeze up, palm sweaty in his. Roan, her most threatening cousin, even seizes Bellamy up, asks him some prying questions, pretends he's going to hurt him if he hurts her, that type a thing. It's sweet, even if Bellamy barely even blinks under his threatening gaze.

An hour in, Echo accidentally on purpose spills her  _entire_  beer over her red, floral crop-top, sticky liquid even dripping down her high waisted jeans. Something Clarke highkey suspects she did because she's jealous of the fact Bellamy never replied to her Facebook friend request and instead is now dating the person she saw as her biggest competition and coincidentally has a way better rack than she does. ( _Like way better_ , Clarke thinks, petty, all those wine-coolers finally starting to kick in.)

She's apologizing with a smirk on her face, offering to run inside and get one of her father's sweaters, but then Bellamy is already shrugging off his plaid shirt, handing it to her. Clarke can see it dawning on Echo's face, the exact second she realizes her plan not only backfired, but that now she has to stare at the two of them the whole afternoon while Bellamy's just in a tight black t-shirt, biceps on full display. He has good arms. The whole silent seizure she goes through while the five stages of grief cross her face is one for the history books, Clarke decides.

Finally, they make their way over to Murphy, who's absolutely being fawned over by everyone even though he's still a piece of shit. A deadly ill piece of shit, but still. Nothing's changed.

"Be casual," Bellamy reminds her when they're almost there, mouth close to her ear and voice vibrating against her neck, sending little sparks of electricity up her spine that she blames entirely on the alcohol. She just lets out a contemptuous humph in response. Like she has to be reminded to be casual.

He lights up at the sight of her face, reaching up to pull the nasal cannula supplying him with oxygen from his nose. "Well, well, well —" he starts, deride, like the actual villain he is. "You must be Bellamy."

"I am," he states from beside her, wrapping his arm around Clarke's waist. She leans in slightly, just to make it more believable. It's a little much — the shirt smells like his cologne, his arm is solid and warm, and his thumb just brushes against the little patch of skin revealed by his shirt riding up. "And you must be the dying cousin whose money we're here to collect?"

To his credit, Murphy actually snorts at that, eyeing the two of them carefully as his dirty fingernails dig into the armrests of his wheelchair. Clarke might be holding her breath, but Bellamy's hand slides down her waist to intertwine their fingers at her hip instead and she feels better. It's ridiculous, but everything is kind of depending on this very moment.

Her cousin's face settles into something hard and unreadable. "You don't expect me to believe you're  _actually_  with him?"

"Why not?" She snaps, fingers tightening around Bellamy's. Beside her, he's a brick wall of security, not even bothered one bit by the attitude of the demon in front of her. Clarke though, not so much unbothered, more white hot rage flashing in front of her eyes.

Murphy just sneers, humoured or vindictive, she's not sure. "Because he's alive?"

Coming from anyone else, and it would be hurtful. She would might even lie awake because of it tonight. From him, just makes her want to spit in his face and call it a day. "Well, we  _are_  together. I met your petty requirements."

He leans forward in his wheelchair, mocking her voice, "Well, I don't believe it." He slumps back, crossing his boney arms over his chest. "Who says you're not just pretending to get my money?"

"Oh. You don't believe me?" Clarke huffs, laughing loudly, delirious even, as she glances over at Bellamy who silently seems to be asking her if she's okay. She huffs again, even if he's right, he's still wrong. Who is he to question whether or not she's being truthful? He doesn't know her. And yeah, maybe she's slammed down about a wine cooler per ten minutes since she's been here and she's a little drunk. What is he going to do about it? "You don't fucking believe me. Okay then, I guess."

She grabs his glass from Bellamy's other hand, yanking a spoon from a nearby table as she clears her throat, slamming it loudly against the glass (it's cheap plastic so it takes a while) until her whole family is staring at her. For a millisecond, she wonders what the hell she's doing, but then her mouth is already moving, pumping more adrenaline through her system with every word.

"We didn't want to announce it because it's so early, but since my  _favorite_ ," she forces a smile, tilting her head towards Murphy as she tries not to cringe too noticeably, "cousin is about to  _painfully_  die choking for air, we figured we could make an exception."

Everyone stares at her in complete and utter silence, including Bellamy, who looks like the Imperial March is playing inside his head. She smiles, forgetting her train of thought for just a moment. Shit. Okay. She puts her hand flat on top of her belly, and rubs it a little, glancing over at him somewhat apologetically. "I'm pregnant!"

Her family erupts into a series of congratulatory cheers, kissing her on the cheek and patting Bellamy on the back. Her mom is ecstatic, hugs her tight and doesn't let go for two minutes straight while Kane shakes Bellamy's hand for the same amount of time, astounded look on his face. Murphy looks shocked at least, before he covers it up with his usual disdain. It all goes by in a blur, really. Clarke not really knowing exactly what the fuck just happened, but for  _once_  in her life, just rolling with it.

The rest of the afternoon and early evening she can't have a single alcoholic beverage, and that's what gets her. Once they're in her car with him behind the wheel, he announces, dryly, "So much for casual, huh?", then ignites the engine.

"Sorry," she mumbles, refastening the top half of her blonde waves with her hair clip before scrubbing a hand over her tired face. "I let him get under my skin."

"You think?" Bellamy snorts, looking over his shoulder as he backs them out of the parking lot. Clarke tries not to let her eyes linger on the tick in his jaw. He's annoyed.

She leans her head back, adjusting the seat belt on her shoulder as she fixes her gaze ahead to try and ease some of the uncomfortable swirling of her stomach. It's quiet for a moment, the air tense between them, and then she blurts out, "If you don't want to do it —"

"Clarke," he cuts her off, abrupt, not even glancing over at her, "I told you I'll see this through with you, okay?"

"Okay," she echoes, moody, crossing her arms over her chest as she pointedly stares out of the window.

He sighs heavily, relaxing his fingers on the wheel enough so his knuckles are no longer a pale white. "Always the overachiever," he comments, half-joking, only trying to make her feel better. She can tell because of the stiffness in his posture. "Couldn't you just have gone with an engagement?"

Some of the tension between them fades, for which she is thankful. Clarke sits up, folds one foot beneath her thigh after kicking off her sandal. "People get fake married all the time. For taxes, or — green cards. Who's gonna fake a baby?"

It was actually a stroke of genius, if she does say so herself. The execution however was a little less than flawless.

"We are apparently," he notes sourly, but without any harshness, making a left. It only half occurs to her how she doesn't even mind him driving. She trusts him. "And you say you're a Gryffindor."

"I said I  _wish_  I was a Gryffindor. But I think that ended the day I tricked Paxton McCreary into that semester abroad, telling him it was my biggest dream to get that spot and then not even —"

He fills it in for her, considering he's heard the story a thousand times, "Applying because it was an all boys school. Yeah. Well, that's what the board gets for not wanting to suspend an sexual assaulter."

Bellamy taps his fingers on the wheel to the beat of song playing lowly on the radio.  _So be careful if you're wanting this touch, 'cause if I love you, then I love you too much. Is this too, is this too much?_  As they pull up to her mom's house, he rightfully says, "I'm sure we can fake our way through a pregnancy from a few states over, but what are we doing to do if seven months pass and he's still alive?"

Clarke considers it for a moment. He looked so sickly. He's always looked sickly, but today it was a new height of sickly. The bags under his eyes, his cheeks fallen in, the oxygen. He couldn't have too long left.

"No way," she concludes as he comes to a halt on the driveway. Neither of them makes a move to go inside. "He's kicking the bucket by the end of the month, and I'll be damned if he spends that money on a striptease at his funeral."

He chuckles, low, fiddling with the key in his hand. Clarke winces, leaning her head against the cool window, screwing her eyes shut. "This is kind of crazy. We're going to have to lie to everyone. I'm sorry."

He makes this kind of dismissive noise in the back of his throat, his head leaning back on the head restraint. Clarke blinks at him a few times, follows his adam apple bobbing up and down intently as he swallows. He really  _doesn'_ t have to do this, yet he is.

She folds her fingers around the hand with the keys, blaming the impulsion on the alcohol still running through her system. " _Hey_. As soon as he dies, I'm going to find you the most expensive first edition rare nerd novel I can and buy it for you, okay?"

He squeezes her much smaller hand, head lolling to the side to meet her gaze, then tries to hide a smirk, failing horribly. "Maybe 'as soon as he dies' can be our always?"

She laughs, tossing his hand away from hers. A memory of the two of them — spread across her couch, watching that movie and sharing a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of beer because she was too lazy to get up to get another one — flashes across her eyes. His thigh and arm pressed against hers even though it was a three seater, his soft sniffles every few minutes, their lame half-drunken promises about going to Amsterdam together someday. "I can't believe they allow you to teach classes full of teenagers with impressionable minds."

The problem is not having to fake date Bellamy. It's easy enough. They're close enough friends they can sell it, and have plenty history to fall back on. They can read each other, even from across a room, and when they want to be extra sickenly, finish each other's sentences.

Event after event, from barbeques to birthday parties to tea time with grandma, they serve quality couple stuff. And it's easy too — her hand in his, his arm around her shoulders, kissing him on the cheek unprompted — like they never were anything but the way they are now.

"Kiss," Murphy decides, one night when all the adult cousins are out bowling together. An old tradition for whenever they're all in town.

"What?" Clarke pauses trying to find her favorite ball on the rack to face her cousin completely. She's not sure she heard him correctly.

"Kiss him," Murphy repeats himself, a blue laser beam crossing back and forth over his face as a Britney Spears song blasts through the speakers. There's a pleased covering his features. "I'm sure you do it all the time, so what's the big deal?"

"The big deal is I won't let you dictate what I can and can't do —" she starts to argue, mostly out of principle, but Bellamy comes jogging up beside her, pouting dramatically as he folds his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest, "Babe — you missed my strike."

"I'm sorry," she says, covering his hands with hers and smiling at him over her shoulder, before glaring back over at her worst enemy. "My freak cousin over here was ordering me to plant one on you just because he felt like it."

She expects him to be as petty about it as she is, because she's pretty sure that's a quality she only developed over the years spending too much time with him. Instead, he rolls his eyes, like he doesn't see what the big deal is, turning her just slightly so he can lean down and press his lips against hers.

It's something they discussed. When absolutely necessary, they should kiss. They both agreed. They could definitely be adult about their lips touching for like three seconds tops. Which is why she's caught off guard with what happens next.

Clarke was so sure it was going to be awkward, obviously new, tentative and maybe even teeth-knocking-together clumsy. But as soon as their mouths touch — it's like nothing she's ever felt before. Like coming home. It's soft at first, just a close-mouthed kiss, a press of his slightly chapped lips against hers that they could and  _should_  end right there.

But then somehow she's completely turned around in his arms, body flush against his as her arms loop around his neck, pulling him as close as possible. Her mouth opens up underneath his, using his teeth to nibble at her bottom lip, tongue. He tastes like beer and nachos. He swallows the moan falling from her lips as his hands slide down her back — pausing on her lower back for a second, like he's asking for permission, before she pushes closer and his hands fold over her ass completely, cupping it firmly — kisses speeding up, the intensity and heat becoming hard to ignore.

Luckily —  _or unfortunately_  — someone, Harper (her favorite cousin), whistles and hollers, getting others to join her badgering until Bellamy releases her, sliding his hand from her ass to her hip and keeping it there firmly as he pulls her back into his side. She tries to hide her face in his neck from embarrassment as her heart slams loudly against her ribcage — his body shaking with laughter against hers — but doesn't miss the sneer on Murphy's face.

"Did you  _have_  to grab my ass?" She asks him, eyebrows raised, once everyone leaves them alone and they squeeze into the booth in front of their bowling lane together. (Like she wasn't pressing up against him like a cat in heat. Like it didn't make her cheek flush just thinking about it now.) He rests his arm behind her and she slumps back sideways, stealing a quick sip of his beer when she's sure nobody is looking.

"Might as well give him a show, princess," Bellamy argues cockily, and she huffs, leaning her temple against the junction between his arm and shoulder. It's not weird. She's just tired. They cuddle all the time during movie nights, or. Or movie nights. She overthinks it — because she's Clarke and it's what she does best — and is about to pull away when his hand moves from the armrest to her shoulder, playing with the ends of her hair absentmindedly.

"Asshole," she mumbles, feeling really sleepy all of a sudden, eyes heavy. She's sure it's something he does all the time, with his other girls. Grabbing their asses, showing them off, making them feel special, leaving them wanting more. It's ridiculous.

"Hey. You're free to grope me whenever you want," he smirks, using his free hand to grab his beer bottle from hers, putting it to his lips. She  _knows_  this is what he does. He flirts. She absolutely  _rejects_ feeling warm all over.

"I knew you were an ass man," she states, simply, taking pride in the fact he chokes on drink. They're friends, but they never really talk about  _this_  stuff. This is Miller territory for him, and Raven territory for her.

He scrapes his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his eyes dart around everywhere but on her. Belatedly, she realizes that is probably because if he looks at her, he's going to have to look at  _her_  rack because of the way they're angled. Quietly, he presses all too seriously, "What makes you think that?"

She rolls her eyes, playfully. "You know — your track record." Why is he playing dumb? He has a type. They both know he does. He likes skinny, usually dark-haired, leggy, supermodel girls.

"My track record?" He echoes, sounding equal amounts of confused and amused at the same time. She might be imagining it, and it's hard to tell in the darkness and blue disco lights, but the tips of his ear look pink.

"Gina, Roma, Bree — all gorgeous, of course,  _great_ asses, especially Gina, but they were a little…" She squints a little, trying to find the right term. She feels she gets to say this, considering she'll be the first to admit her own ass is okay, but not that spectacular. "Underdeveloped chest wise?"

"Wow," he blinks at her, dumbfounded. "I didn't realize you were so superficial," he adds, thumbnail picking at the label on his beer bottle. He smirks, catching her off guard. "But since you're so interested, I appreciate both."

"But?"

Bellamy cocks an eyebrow. "But what?"

She doesn't know why she's pushing this. Masochism maybe. "If you  _had_  to choose."

His eyes flick down just a second, which she pretends not to notice even though a familiar heat runs down her spine. "I don't  _have_  to choose, that's the great thing about this whole arrangement. Best of both worlds."

She's doesn't know if he's lowkey implying her tits and ass are of equal greatness, which isn't even true, or if he's just fucking with her for no reason, but either way she's not going to get into it.

She lets out a loud humpfh, adjusting her head on his chest so she can look back out at the bowling lane. Harper's boyfriend just got a spare so they high five, sharing a short, sweet congratulatory kiss. A  _real_ kiss.

She hardly remembered that first drunken kiss she shared with Bellamy a lifetime and a half ago. She imagined it a lot though; watching him pick up other girls at bars, pretending not to notice the way they stare at him, actively trying to ignore his exes hyping him up in front of her, him dodging calls from girls he met up with once. He must be doing something right, if they keep coming back for more. This one will be hard to forget however, that's one thing she's sure of.

(That night she lies awake for hours, staring at his broad back as she tries to control her heart rate, wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself into.)

A few days later Clarke accidentally lets it drop via text that she and Bellamy are going to the beach. To which Harper insists on tagging along, and before she knows it, Harper's invited Roan, and of course Roan drags along his annoying sister Echo and her great fucking ass. Since death comes in threes, Echo invites Murphy for no reason whatsoever. His parents hate him and are never around, so of course he has nothing better to do but to spend his afternoon with them.

"It'll be fun," Bellamy tells her as they make their way down the steps leading to the semi-private beach. Arkadia's population is mostly geriatrics at this point, so no one really comes there anymore. "You love Harper."

"It's not Harper I'm worried about."

"Roan's the worst."

"No," she laughs, swatting him in the chest with her towel. They're close to the shore now. It's not that she _hates_ her cousins, or spending time with them. She just doesn't like crowds, and they've been surrounded by people almost every day. She wanted to spend some time alone. "I love him. He used to chaperone me at gay bars when I was underage and give me piggyback rides when I was tired."

He huffs, indignant. "That was before I was around."

"Are you seriously going to start a pissing contest over who's back I get to hypothetically jump on?"

They're almost at the spot they agreed to meet at when he says, smugly, teasing glint in his eyes, "You're carrying my child, right? Pretty sure that gives me first rights to piggyback rides."

"You're going to regret that one," Clarke retorts with a self-deprecating snort, about to make a dig at his age, too, but he's already distracted by the sound of her cousins arguing.

Her family are all present already. Probably because she spent half an hour on thinking of excuses why they  _couldn't_  go; but Bellamy was sick and tired of the sticky heat, really good at debunking all her excuses and she kind of owed him one, anyway. Echo is off swimming or maybe just floating, like witches do. Harper and Roan are about fifty feet up ahead, setting up a beach volleyball net, Monty giving them patient instructions on how to do it. Before they even ask him to join, Bellamy is already pulling his shirt over his head, throwing it on top of the bag she just dropped at her feet before kicking of his flip-flops.

"You'll be okay, right?" He asks with a grin, already jogging backwards, fully well knowing she despises team sports. She rolls her eyes, flipping him off. Of course he leaves her alone with her archenemy in favor of getting to beat Roan at something. Whatever.

Murphy is sitting in a white plastic chair that looks like it's about three seconds away from giving out, a sunhat that reads ' _hello sunshine'_  perched on top of his greasy head and a hot pink hawaiian shirt covering his thin frame and a thick white strip brushed across his pasty nose. He has the nerve to wave at her, knowing he just ruined her day just by being here. Out of protest, she lays on her stomach on the overpriced sunbathing chair she paid twelve bucks for, sunglasses on and earbuds in.

She must fall asleep, because she surges awake with a gasp as something cool drips on her neck, warm sun suddenly disappeared. She turns around to find a dripping wet Bellamy blocking her sun, hands on his hips as he raises his eyebrows, "It's time to reapply, princess."

"I hate you," she claims, hotly, wiping the water off the back of her neck before sliding her sunglasses into her hair. Fucking dick.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighs, leisurely chewing on a piece of gum as he moves his hand to motion for her to get up. "Just get your sunblock out so I can help you not burn to death."

When he goes into protective mother hen mode like that, his voice gets gruff, authoritative, making the words seep into her skin and send a chill up her spine. She shakes it off, pushing herself into a seated position and swinging her legs off the side of the chair. She stretches her arms above her head, trying to get rid of the loomy, sleepy feeling in her bones, catching Bellamy's gaze just as she drops her arms back down. He quickly looks away, fingers digging into his sides, and maybe she's crazy, but his cheeks look flushed.

Clarke gets the bottle from her bag, handing it over to him as she turns slightly, back towards him. She starts to pull up her hair, straps of her black bikini already hanging limply down her shoulders because she'd only been sunbathing all afternoon and prefered not to get tan lines. Sitting like this, she has to stare directly at Murphy, which puts her in the foulest of moods. He's texting. God knows to who, considering he doesn't have any friends.

Bellamy settles on the chair behind her, straddling it, squirting a generous amount of sunblock into his hand. She's trying to warn him that she's going to kick him in the shin if he puts the cold liquid on her skin just like that, but he dips his other hand into it first, sufficiently warming it up before he starts rubbing it onto her shoulders.

"I'm not an amateur," he announces, pointedly, and she leans into his touch, just a little, dropping her head forward and biting down on her lip to keep from actually moaning out loud, forgetting what she wanted to reply so just humming instead. He smooths the lotion across the expanse of her shoulders slowly and with a certain diligence, making sure to get every inch of exposed skin.

It's relaxing, the pressure of his fingers in her flesh, his gentle ministrations. When his fingers dip under the back of her bikini, she actually has to suppress a shiver and wonder what the fuck is wrong with her. He works his way down carefully, finally settling his hands on her sides, a sign he's finished.

Clarke inhales sharply, shifting a little so she's sitting more sideways, as she hopes her entire neck isn't splotched red. The hand the farthest away from him falls away, back into his lap, the other stays on her side, slides further forward onto her abdomen. She looks down at his hand for a moment, almost completely covering her front, and usually she'd feel just a little bit self conscious, but it's mostly just hot to her at the moment.

His chest is still glistening from the water, and he smells like the sea. She smiles, reaching up to brush a few wet curls away from his face, just because she can't help it. "Did you manage to feed your alpha god complex by beating Roan?"

He grins proudly, leaning back his shoulders just a tiny amount, boastingly. "Me and Harper beat them 6 to 2."

"You're such a big boy," Clarke mocks him, sticking out her tongue a little, reaching out to squeeze his forearm. The gesture makes her cleavage press together, and his eyes dart down for just a moment before he drags them back up to hers, swallowing tightly. She furrows her brow, about to jokingly ask him if he was just staring at her breasts, bros being bros, but then Echo calls out his name.

"You up for a rematch against this sibling duo?" She points at Roan, and the both of them flex their biceps challengingly like they're in a bodybuilding contest. It's probably supposed to be funny, but all Clarke can think of is how badly she wants Bellamy to stay at her side instead.

He nods at her cousins in recognition, signaling over his shoulder he'll be right there. Bellamy turns back to her, raising his eyebrows. His hand lingers on her tummy and she leans up as a surge of affection overcomes her, pecks his cheek quickly. For some reason — and she has no other reason but her hormones getting the best of her and her biological clock — a flash of a baby with curly, dark hair and tiny faded freckles appears in front of her eyes. A flash she pushes far, far back into her mind. She's so busy freaking out, she almost misses it. The way he glances over at Murphy, who's still texting furiously, and she realizes he's just putting up a show for him.

"I can do the rest myself," she says quickly, offering him a weak smile as she pulls the bottle of sunblock back into her lap. "Thanks."

Bellamy actually has the nerve to wink at her as he pushes himself up from her chair. "Just looking out for you." And maybe he was.

The rest of the day there's a bitter taste in her mouth that she can't quite get rid of, no matter how hard she tries.

Their last night in her childhood home, she surges awake at 4:12 AM, skin covered in a layer of sweat, feeling like she can't quite get enough air into her lungs. Her fingers curl into the sheets, trying to find some purchase, something to ground her back to reality.

A heavy arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest sideways, in between his legs, rocking her softly as a hand strokes down her back comfortingly. "Just breathe with me, okay?"

He inhales through his nose, holds it, and exhales through his mouth. He repeats the process until she starts following along, continues for as long as it takes for her to feel a little less like she's dying.

Clarke pulls back, embarrassed. There's a dark, wet spot on his t-shirt. From her tears she realizes. "Sorry," she mutters, wiping under her eyes, not having anything better to offer him.

"Don't apologize." One of his hands is still splayed across her back, and he rubs it for a moment. It's quiet for a minute longer. Then he urges, soft, "Does it still get bad like this often?"

No. Just when she feels like she's losing grip on her own feelings. Which hasn't happened in a long while. Mostly because she shut that part of herself of. "Sometimes."

He brushes a piece of her hair behind her ear, his thumb swiping down the shell of her ear for just a moment, his voice gentle, "When?"

She stiffens. Probably realizing she liked it just a little too much whenever someone referred to him as her boyfriend. "I don't know."

"What can I do?" Clarke recognizes the frustration in his voice, the same kind of frustration he'd use on his sister, or one of his students. It aches.

"Nothing," she snaps, then grits her teeth, cursing herself. It's not  _his_  fault, even if he's part of the reason why. She leans back into him, resting her ear against his chest. His steady drum of his heartbeat gives her comfort, something to hold on to. Her eyes get heavy again. "This is nice. Just like this."

"Okay," Bellamy says, pressing the lightest of his kisses to the crown of her head, knowing just what she needs like always.

(It's why she can't possibly tell him why this happens. She's fucked up. She always will be. He deserves better.)

"Murphy just send me a follow request. Should I accept?" He asks her absently on in the car on the way home. The window's down, and his elbow is resting on the frame, cheek on his fist as he scrolls through his phone with the thumb of his free hand.

"If you don't he'll think we're hiding something," Clarke argues, logical as she fumbles with the radio until she finds a song she likes. She huffs, humoured, voice laced with cynicism, "Besides, you're part of the family now, aren't you?"

The only reason he even has a private account is that he doesn't want his high school students to see his shirtless gym selfies and embarrassing photoshoots of his cat, Mars. It's not like he has anything to be ashamed of.

"Shit," he mutters, lowly. "Should probably delete those pictures with Gina, then."

"Oh." Clarke's mouth dries up as she forces herself to keep her gaze fixed straight ahead. There's not enough emotion in his voice or on his face to piece together how he feels. "You still haven't?"

"It's —" he sighs, breaks himself off. He glances over at her, a pained expression on his face. "It's not because I was expecting us to get back together."

"It's okay if you do," Clarke says, because she's still his friend. Gina was awesome. So is Bellamy. They deserve each other. If he loves her —

"I was never really  _in_ love with her," he counters, dropping his phone in his lap as he looks outside, almost wistful. He never did elaborate on their break-up any further than a grumpy ' _it didn't work out, drinks?_ '. "I wished I was and — and sometimes I probably still do."

"Yeah," Clarke answers, just to have something to say. Her posture rigid. They don't really ever discuss their love lives, because he only dates casually and never lets her meet his nightly conquests, and she's sworn off relationships. Or probably because they once kind of had a small, tiny unspoken thing, maybe that makes it even more difficult.

He turns his head, stares at her for a second without saying anything. "She wasn't perfect, but she might as well been. I just figured there was something wrong with me. For not being able to love her. That I was the problem. I had to be."

"There's nothing wrong with you," Clarke cuts in, definite as she glances over at him, knuckles white from her grip on the wheel. "You're —" She trails off, trying to find a word to describe him. No word seems good enough to encapsulate all he is. He's amazing, thoughtful, funny, safe, compassionate, smart, intuitive, big-hearted. Her best friend. So she settles on, "Great."

"You're getting good at the whole comfort thing," he replies after a beat, dry as he picks his phone back up.

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever." She sees a gas station in the distance, checks her fuel light. They should probably make a quick pitstop. "You're not the problem," she presses, genuinely, because it's important he knows this. She's even about to take back saying Gina had a great ass out of solidarity when he cuts her off.

"I know, princess." He smirks, patting her thigh as she pulls over, before unfastening his seatbelt. "But thanks for the reassurance we won't  _both_  end up as lonely old spinsters."

She chokes back a laugh, refusing to give him the satisfaction, instead naming a list of snacks she wants while she starts to fill up the tank. He disappears inside, and once she's done she takes a seat on the passenger's seat. She's tired and she's sure he won't mind driving for the next couple of hours.

Clarke fishes her phone from the bottom of her bag with the intention to give her mom and Marcus an update on how far along they are, but instead finds herself on his instagram page, scrolling down to look at the pictures of him and Gina.

They looked good together — eyes crinkled from smiling,  _happy_. Clarke feels like a piece of shit, dragging him into her mess when he could be out there trying to find someone like Gina, find someone he could fall in love with, make him feel like he's special. He agreed to this, of course he did, but that's who he is. He always shows up when she needs him to. And he said he was doing it for Madi, too. So all she can hope is that her cousin bites the bullet sooner rather than later; one, so he can get back to his regularly scheduled romantic life and two, so she can stop being  _weird_  around him all the time. Stop feeling like she's being consumed by guilt.

She's just zooming in on a shot of Bellamy with his arms around Gina's waist as she looks up at him over her shoulder — both laughing, standing beside a picnic table, BBQ in the back, sun shining down on them warmly, looking like two H&M models in their summer catalogue — when somebody taps on the window. Startled, her phone flings out of her fingers and into the dashboard before it thumps to the floor mat. She scrambles to try and find it as Bellamy opens the passenger door, giving her a weird look as he patiently waits to dump the bag of snacks in her laps.

"Are you okay?" He asks as she sits back upright, face red as she fixes her hair back into place.

"I'm fine," she squeaks out, hurrying to stuff her phone into her pocket. Fine. Only embarrassed and praying to God he didn't see her obviously stalking him. She clears her throat, trying to stop feeling like she was just caught doing something wrong, telling her heart rate to calm down. "Just tired. Maybe you want to drive for a while?"

He nods, surprise only crossing his face for half a second, before dropping the plastic grocery bag on top of her thighs, handing her a blue slurpee. She didn't ask for it, but he knows her well, already taking a greedy sip as he makes his way around the car.

He settles in beside her, having to struggle to get in with the way she's positioned the seat. He sends her a glare as he finally folds himself into the car, pulling on the lever to push it further away from the wheel. Bellamy stretches out his legs with a content sigh, making her laugh at the drama of it all as she slaps him in the stomach. "I'm sorry I have no control over our height difference."

"No, I usually like it," he counters without much thought, grinning over at her distractedly, and she almost chokes on her slurpee. Luckily, she manages to hide it with a cough, avoiding his concerned look. He always flirts with everyone, she's just the one being weird about it. It's her own fault for suddenly reading into everything. It's no coincidence so many romcoms were made about this exact situation — it does mess with your head, blur lines. And Clarke doesn't do well with blurred lines. She needs clarity,  _control_.

Clarke puts the slurpee in the cupholder, pulling out something to munch on instead, so she at least has something to do. He puts the car in drive, but makes no move to actually start driving. When she realizes this, she looks over at him, eyebrows raised. His gaze lingers on her mouth, the atmosphere between them thickening for some reason, and instead of dwelling on it she starts wiping at it subconsciously. Bellamy drags his eyes back up her face, shaking his head slightly as he clarifies, "Your lips — they're blue."

"Oh," she lets out a short, awkward chuckle, but then decides to stop feeling the way she does, and instead lean into their weird dynamic even harder. "Right. I forgot to tell you. It's a boy."

"Thank God," he counters right back, before turning up the volume of the radio and pulling out of the gas station,  _and I tell myself, tell myself, tell myself 'draw the line', and I do, I do, but once in a while I trip up and I cross the line and I think of you_ , "Someone to carry on my family name."

They hang-out exactly the amount of times they did before, about twice a week, whenever they can work it out with Clarke's shift changes and his busy social life, since he can't be alone for longer than five minutes. He cooks her dinner, or she brings over take-out. They watch a movie, or go to the park to walk his old lady neighbour's dog. He takes her along to his favorite bookstore in town, or she makes him come as her plus one to her co-workers' birthday parties.

Only this time around, they take sickly pictures of each other, or together. Just to keep Murphy updated. Clarke is smart about it, too, taking pictures of Bellamy's dog with his arm just in the corner of frame, or filming herself failing horribly at flipping breakfast pancakes with his voice only barely audible in the background, so it's not too conspicuous. For Halloween they dress up as Juno and Paulie, which receives only glaringly positive reviews.

At this point her entire life consists of working, sleeping, eating, and convincing Murphy she's in love with her best friend and they're expecting a baby together. (It should tell her something, how easily it comes, how natural it feels, but she tries not to think about it  _too_  hard.)

The real problem here is the fact Murphy just won't, for the life of her, fucking  _die_. Fast forward two months, and she's in Sanctum far away from the cockroach, still pretending to be dating Bellamy and to carry his literal baby inside of her. She's about to lose it.

Thanksgiving is coming up, and her mom informs her via the email attached to her and Kane's ecard that Murphy asked to come to their annual dinner. She's supposed to be at least five months pregnant at this point, which means she's forced to use a lifeline.

"You're wild," Raven tells her over the phone, after her maniacal laughter has subdued.

Clarke groans, resting her forehead against the fridge on the way to get herself a bottle of water. She stares at her socked feet. Maybe she really is insane.

"Truly never a dull moment with you, Griffin," she replies, mock-wistful, and Clarke can imagine her judgemental little stare from all the way across two state lines. Or maybe more. That one is always on the move with her job as a tech genius for Apple. "Didn't think you'd have it in you, but —"

"Can you help me or not?" The blonde snaps, involuntarily almost, pulling open the fridge and settling on a half-empty bottle of wine instead, pulling it out roughly. She's been giving herself enough shit over this whole arrangement, she doesn't need it from someone else. Especially not Raven, because that girl is like her overbearing second consciousness; a moral compass always pointing to ' _you're wrong, I'm right_ ' that never lets on. Sometimes, it pushes her to be better. Other times, she has to tell her friend to back off in less friendly terms. Both end in arguments that she doesn't feel like having right now.

Luckily, this time around, she graciously doesn't push.

"Can I help you by making you a fake pregnancy belly so you can con your dying cousin out of his livelihood?" Raven clarifies, sounding skeptical. " _Absolutely_."

"Thanks," Clarke says awkwardly. She doesn't know how many more people she can involve in this. It's a whole thing now. She's had to block all her co-workers on social media in case she posts something pregnancy-related. When they asked, she said she was doing a 'cleanse', one of those that she's heard Octavia gone on and on about after that vow of silence she took for a like week while in Thailand.

"Why not just do regular psycho white lady and use a pillow?"

"My mom is a doctor," Clarke sighs, starting to fill a nearby mug with the wine. "I'm pretty sure she's going to be able to tell the difference between a pillow and an actual pregnancy."

"You involved Abby in this?" She's actually cackling at this point. "This keeps getting better and better. Am I going to get invited to this dinner?"

"Over my dead body," Clarke counters immediately, heatless but firm. The last thing she needs is Raven's judgemental little gazes in live action.

"So you want me to this as a selfless favor?"

"Of course not. I know you'd never," she smiles against her phone, taking the first courteous swig of her mug. "I'm sending you the two day spa retreat gift card I got for my birthday so you can take your new boyfriend."

"Nice," Raven replies, appreciative, and she can hear her clicking away on a keyboard in the background which means her attention is crossing back over into divided territory and their conversation is close to being over, "Anyway, if he still hasn't kicked the bucket in like two months, let me know. I have some ideas for a pregnancy shoot."

Even if she doesn't have many friends, the friends she does have are shoot first, ask questions later. Most of the time, anyway. Which is why she and Bellamy arrive on her mother's doorstep on the fourth Thursday of November with a fake silicone pregnancy belly attached to her frame that arrived in the mail just in time for their visit. It even feels relatively real, because Raven is  _that_ good. And Clarke is eternally grateful. Since she came this far, she  _has_  to see it through.

As soon as she drops her bag on top of the stairs, Murphy rolls into the foyer with a sneer on face as his scrutinizing eyes scan her body from top to toes. "You're glowing." The sarcasm is palpable.

It's mostly her faith in how good Raven is at whatever she does that keeps her from squirming nervously underneath his gaze. Instead, she plasters an award winning grin on her face, straightening out the bottom of her green satin dress, "Happy Turkey Day,  _John_."

He mumbles something she barely registers, already being led to the living room by her mother, pulling Bellamy along by wrapping her hand around his. Kane is on the couch reading one of his self-help books while the Macy's parade plays on the television.

Her mom doesn't want any help in the kitchen, which Clarke initially suspects is because she and her horrible cooking skills are the ones asking, but then Bellamy offers and she tells him no too, telling them to sit down and relax after the long drive over. They spent last night at a motel a few hours away — one her mom paid for without them asking, claiming she shouldn't be in the car too long while pregnant — so she doesn't feel as dead as the last trip they took here, but still.

Clarke sits down next to her stepdad, her faux-boyfriend settling in beside her, his arm coming up around her shoulders. Even she has to admit they're sitting unnecessarily close, but she likes the way his fingers trail down her arm and the look of disdain on her cousin's face as he wheels in beside the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. Murphy watches them like a hawk, like her and Bellamy would suddenly forget how to act around each other, or she'd somehow forget she was supposed to be pregnant.

Still, she is kind of glad when her mom calls out and tells them dinner is about to be served because it means she can sit down somewhere far away from Murphy and his uncomfortable ogling. His face reminds her of an angry eel.

Conversation is mostly about work at first; Bellamy's students, Kane's new mayor campaign, she and her mom boring the rest of the company with medical talk. Then they segue back to their alleged offspring, because apparently when you're pregnant, it's  _all_ that people want to talk about.

"So do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl yet?" Murphy interjects loudly, cheek leaning on his fist as he sticks his fork into a slice of turkey angrily. Clarke just fished an ultrasound image from her bag to show her mom and Kane, one that she almost broke HIPAA for to get, and apparently her cousin is allergic to happiness.

"No, we don't really care," Bellamy answers, not skipping a beat, then turns to look at Clarke, eyes gleaming mischievously. "There's more important stuff than genitals."

"Like personality," the blonde fills in, eyebrows raised, question mark in her voice. She doesn't know what he is up to, but she can imagine.

"Definitely," Bellamy agrees, annoyingly smug expression on his face. "But I think it should have my bone structure too. It's better than yours."

She narrows her eyes at him, scoffing indignantly, as she puts down her cutlery. Two can play that game. "Well as long as it doesn't have your arrogant smile." She grins at him, sugary sweet, adding, "Don't want people to get the urge to punch my baby on sight."

He puts his arm on the back of her chair, leaning closer, the smell of his cologne engulfing her like a warm blanket. "If we're vetoing my smile we're vetoing your nose."

She pinches his side, not all too soft, to which he barely reacts beside a small flinch, offended look on her face. "What's wrong with my nose?"

"It's small," he says as she scrunches up her nose self consciously, then Bellamy even lets out a small, amused chuckle as he reaches out with his free hand to run his finger over it affectionately. "Doesn't fit the godlike bone structure we already established it should have earlier."

"Godlike?" She snorts, stuffing part of a bedroll in her mouth after tearing it off. She knows he's teasing, technically, but still. "If we're talking godlike, throw my eyes in there."

"Hey," he says, rough, looking a whole lot like he can dish it out but can't take it as he turns the puppy-dog look on her. He's so sensitive. "My eyes aren't so bad."

"No, they're not," Clarke agrees, keeping her expression neutral even thinking about the new shades of brown she keeps discovering every day, but also, she's going to win this argument, "Mine are just better than yours."

He blows out a skeptical huff of air, his face close enough for her to feel the warm air fan across her face. "We'll see about that. We all know my genes are dominant anyway."

"Luckily there's this little thing called natural selection. Since all your features will get the kid bullied, I'm sure my baby blues will come out on top," she counters, making a point of shoving the last of her bread roll in her mouth that she's been adding an extra layers of butter on since his last comeback.

He's grinning at her stupidly, which she is of course returning with a smile just as idiotic in nature, but before he can open his dumb mouth with a retaliation she realizes everyone is looking at them and the exchange that just took place. She clears her throat uncomfortably as she steps down on Bellamy's foot so he finally tears his eyes away from her, turning back to her mom, who's looking all  _wistful_ and  _amused_ and  _irritating_.

"I think it'll be the perfect combination," she declares, almost prophetical, sharing one of those annoying all-knowing looks with Kane that have Clarke's heart slam wildly against her ribcage.

The blonde just rolls her eyes half-heartedly as she avoids Bellamy's eyes, silently thanking God herself when he takes his arm off her chair, shifting away from her to continue eating his potato salad. Instead she catches Murphy's gaze over the rim of her glass of water — that she's mostly sipping on in a lame attempt to cool her heated cheeks — from across the table, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

 _Fuck off_ , she mouths, even though her stomach churns uncomfortably. Maybe she's not as good at hiding her feelings as she'd thought. Her cousin lets out a humpfh, pretending to straighten out his nasal cannula with one middle finger moving over each cheek.

After dinner comes to an end without any major mayhaps, Clarke decides she needs a breather, and isolates herself in the kitchen under the guise of being angry her favorite football team is behind. Not that she actually cares about football when she was raised on soccer by her dad, but she gets heated enough about random shit just out of spite, they buy it.

She pours herself half a glass of wine in a highball glass, just because she deserves it, taking a grateful sip. She's tired. Her whole body feels like it's drained of every last little shred of energy. Which is what it must feel like when you're  _actually_  carrying a baby.

The worst part is that it's not even that the pretending is physically and emotionally exhausting; it's the part where she has to try to somehow convene to Bellamy she's really not  _that_ into it and it's all just pure for show without tipping off anyone else that it's not actually real even though it kind of is. It's fucking with her own brain, the delicate balance between reality and pretend.

Lately she's just been enjoying all of it way too much; his little touches, his special smile, the way he calls her his, it makes her feel sick inside, sick at how bad of a person she is. He's doing this to  _help_  her, and she's taking advantage of it, of his trust.

Somebody clears their throat, alerting her of their presence, and she quickly downs the rest of the glass before turning around to face them, still wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

It's her mom. She doesn't seem to notice the alarm on her daughter's face, or how white her knuckles are from the grip on the counter behind her. Abby smiles, fond, putting down the empty dip bowl in the sink before settling down beside her, arm brushing against hers.

"How are you doing, honey?" It sounds almost strange, coming from her mouth like that. Clarke and her mom are better at a distance, always have been. Her mom never bothered to ask her before, and when she did, she never  _really_  listened to the answer. It's part of the reason she walked around with untreated PTSD after Finn for longer than she should have. Feeling like she has to fix everything by herself is something she still struggles with to this day. Like asking for help is failing.

The blonde's tongue dips out to wet her dry lips, swallowing tightly. "I'm doing fine, mom. Just a little tired." It's true, too.

Her mom reaches up with the hand furthest away from her, brushes back a loose strand of hair from Clarke's face. Her thumb lingers on her cheek, caressing it softly. "I'm proud of you, you know that, right?"

"Mom," she warns, and it practically comes out like a whine. She can only hope her breath doesn't smell too much like alcohol. Then Abby lets out a small laugh, her hand dropping down to her stomach instead. Clarke freezes, wills her face into a blank slate as she stares down at her mother's hand on top of her pregnant belly.

"I always thought you might end up with him, you know?" She says, then finally takes her hand off her abdomen and Clarke feels like she can breath again. It even takes her a second before she fully registers what her mom just said.

"You did?" Is all she can stammer out as a reply, folding her own hands over her belly, mostly to keep up appearances but also so her mom can't reach out and touch her again.

"For one, I saw the way you looked at each other," her mom reasons, tilting her head slightly, then lists on, "You never stopped talking about him in our emails."

"He's my best friend," Clarke offers simply, slightly offended. She doesn't even know why she's getting defensive. This  _is_ what they've been trying to sell after all. But it feels too confrontational like this, like she's suffocating.

"I might not have always been the best mother to you, Clarke," Abby sighs, her mouth a straight line of regret and Clarke's heart aches, just a little, blood runs cold, just a little. "But I know  _you_ — and it's this instinct we all have." The final nail in her coffin. "You'll know soon."

Clarke musters together a smile that she hopes comes across as anticipatory and not complete dread, glad that her mom steps aside to get some new dip out of the fridge before leaving her alone again. Not much later she pretends she doesn't feel well, citing long travels and carrying a human inside of her, and disappears up the stairs.

Bellamy follows her not much later, but she pretends to be asleep as he gets ready for bed. It isn't until hours later when she's still staring her alarm clock, watching the red numbers fade into 3:14 AM, going over everything over and over again, that he sighs loudly and she can hear him struggle with the sheets.

Apparently, he realized she was still awake too, or hopes she is, anyway, because he says into the darkness, "You know your mom offered me her old ring?"

Clarke freezes, keeping her eyes trained on the wall opposite from her. She sucks in a sharp breath, then softly inquires, "What did you tell her?"

"I told her you don't believe in marriage," he responds easily, and the mattress dips as he shifts, most likely onto his back, considering it feels like he's much closer all of a sudden.

She moves, turning onto her other side, adjusting her head on the pillow as she tries to read his face in the dark. There's not much to go on. "Nice save."

He is on his back, arms above the sheets, fingers tapping on his stomach mindlessly as he stares at the ceiling. It's silent for a moment, before he says, quiet, so quiet, "It wouldn't be all too bad, right?"

Being married? Clarke's heart threatens to burst free from her ribcage with the way it's beating. She swallows thickly, eyes darting over the side of his face like it might tell her the magic answer to a suggestion like that. Instead of digging, diving in deeper into what he means, what she wants it to mean, she pushes, "I'm positive Murphy will succumb before we have to take measures that drastic and you're stuck with me for life."

He shakes his head lightly, throwing one arm over his forehead before he finally turns to look at her. He searches her face for a moment longer, then the corners of his lips turn up, almost timid, "Pretty sure we'd be divorced within a month anyway."

It'd be so  _easy_  to call him out on it. He always deflects with lame jokes.  _Tell me what you really mean._ He'd probably listen too.

"Definitely. It would never work," she counters, just as smoothly, even if them in this bed together, convincing everyone they are together, is the prove of the exact opposite of her statement, then pushes herself up unto her elbow. "Madi sent me some pictures of her new school supplies by the way." She pushes his arm with her free hand, teasingly, " _Totally_  your brand. Wanna see?"

His smile lights up the dark, and Clarke is already blindly reaching for her phone on the nightstand as he sits up with his back to the buttoned headboard, sheets falling down into his lap. She crawls down beside him, pulling on knee up to her chest, tries not to ogle his chest, phone lighting up their faces in the dark as she scrolls through her camera roll.

There's about twenty pictures of Madi posing with her new school supplies, because Clarke had asked about ten times if they'd arrived in the mail yet and she was a brat who decided everything needed an individual shot after that. Her whole body feels warm, looking at her happy, healthy, round little face. She's twelve now — the most obnoxious twelve year old there is, keeps asking Clarke about when she can get her hair dyed and whether or not she's brought a plane ticket for the summer yet.

Once they're down to the last one, and he has sufficiently zoomed in on Madi's face in each one, he notes, contemplative, "It kind of makes it all worth it, huh?"

Clarke glimpses at his face, biting down on her thumbnail absentmindedly. She doesn't know what it's costing him, is afraid to ask at this point. Also knows that's why she can't just come out and say it. That she might actually be in love with him.

She knocks her elbow into his arm, soft, ignoring the sparks it shoots right up her spine. "Yeah. I think it does."

They go back home. Weeks pass. Raven has her pose in front of a green screen with one of the bigger fake bellies she constructed just for the occasion, and photoshops it to make the stomach look real and purposely overdoes it. In most of them, she looks like she's a hippie in a field of flowers. Months go by. They get to skip Christmas in Arkadia by claiming it's Bellamy's family's turn — since they're a unit now and whatever — even though they spend the whole break holed up inside watching bad Hallmark movies and pigging out on junkfood. Octavia, however, does email her out of the blue one day.

* * *

**TO:** [cj.griffin@PolisUMC.com](mailto:c.griffin@PolisUMC.com)

**SUBJECT:**   _wtf_

what the fuck are you pregnant? bellamy won't talk to me about it

* * *

 **TO:**  [octaviablake@gmail.com](mailto:octaviablake@gmail.com)

 **SUBJECT:**   _RE:_   _wtf_

Are you sure he doesn't just refuse to talk to you because you said you'd be back six months ago and instead you're off somewhere in Australia with big scary spiders and a bigger scarier boyfriend?

* * *

If Bellamy didn't want to talk to her, Clarke wasn't going to say anything about it either. He was probably torturing her out of pettiness, but she supports the pettiness in this case. She's been lobbying for him to stand up to his sister for years now.

She means to ask him about it, about what he wants her to say, but then kind of forgets about it until a reply follows three weeks later.

* * *

**TO:** [cj.griffin@PolisUMC.com](mailto:c.griffin@PolisUMC.com)

**SUBJECT:**   _RE: RE: wtf_

whatever congrats i guess.

* * *

It's now Clarke figures she should say something. There's petty, and then there's letting your best friend's sister roam the earth thinking you're carrying his baby. Like, she might  _actually_  fly home for this. (It's not  _just_ because she wants Octavia to stay far away, she tells herself, she can most  _definitely_  share but it's also good to be honest.)

* * *

 **TO:** [octaviablake@gmail.com](mailto:octaviablake@gmail.com)

 **SUBJECT:**   _RE: RE: RE:_   _wtf_

I'm not pregnant. Bellamy is helping me win a bet.

* * *

It's the easiest way to explain the arrangement. Nevermind she's 28 years old and she really should be above immature shit like bets. The real reason is simply even more embarrassing. The reply that comes within five minutes is just a plain ' _lmao of course_ '.

Clarke hesitates for a second. Should she call Bellamy? Disclose him of the fact she's kind of technically been talking to his sister for three weeks now? In the end her curiosity beats out anything else — like common sense — and knowing Octavia being online is rare, and she finds herself typing out a quick response.

* * *

 **TO:** [octaviablake@gmail.com](mailto:octaviablake@gmail.com)

 **SUBJECT:**   _RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:_   _wtf_

You weren't even a little surprised I was allegedly pregnant with his baby?

* * *

Anxiously, she awaits a reply, but it doesn't come. No matter how many times she refreshes her inbox, or closes and re-opens the app. Which means the younger Blake probably left whatever shoddy little internet café she was at in favor of risking her life jumping off a cliff or petting wildlife. That girl lived for danger.

"Hey. By the way. Octavia emailed me," Clarke mentions from the couch that evening, putting aside her sketchbook as she stretches out her sore limbs. He looks up from grading the stack of homework in front of him, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he leans back in the kitchen chair he's in.

"Oh, yeah, she told me," he confesses, tapping his red pen against the edge of the table. He looks dangerously relaxed. It's weird.

"When did she  _tell_ you?" She frowns, sitting up so she can look at him fully over the back of the couch. He hasn't had any real contact with her for months, trying to out stubborn her, and now he  _casually_  lets it drop they spoke and he didn't even tell her about it. They're still supposed to be best friends.

He rolls his eyes, finishes off his coffee before pushing himself up out of the chair. "We skyped like a week ago," he starts, pushing all of the reports spread across the table into one neat pile. "I explained the  _situation_  to her as best as I could."

She hums in lieu of an actual reply as he falls down on the opposite end of the couch, pulling her feet in his lap. His warm fingers on the bare skin of her ankle send a familiar heat right to her lower belly, but she pushes it away. Lately she's been having some pretty vivid sex dreams, but she blames it on the fact she hasn't actually gotten laid since early May. It's not like she could go out on a date with anyone — even if it was just strictly a hook up —  _while_ fake-carrying her best friend's baby. Like something about that just felt wrong. Like it crossed a line they never discussed but was still there. She wasn't his, but it still — sometimes, it still  _felt_ like that.

Even if she is as far in the process to admit to herself she might have romantic feelings for him, taking it any further than that makes her clam up with panic.

 _But_ , unfortunately her body seems to think otherwise. The sex dreams come along with embarrassingly visceral reactions to normal touches. Like him brushing his hand on her shoulder when he leans over to grab something. His arm resting against hers if they sit beside each other. Or even something stupidly mundane like touching her fucking ankle.

He opens the Netflix app on his television and she forces herself to look away from him, for her voice to be even. "You two okay now?"

"I think the distance has been doing us good," he settles on, even though there's some tension in his shoulders that looks achingly familiar. "I still wish she kept me in the loop more. But—" He smirks, self-deprecating, a welcome sight. "I no longer find myself wanting an update on her whereabouts every minute."

Clarke squints her eyes at him, tries to bite back her smile, but fails horribly of course. "So you're saying you're no longer completely obsessed, just regularly infatuated?"

"Ha," he says, pinching her big toe until she pulls her foot back, letting out a small yelp. At least she can rest easy with the knowledge he didn't have a better comeback than bodily harm.

"Dick," she mutters, wiggling her toes, but he's already pulling her foot back, starting to knead the flesh in a way that almost makes her roll her eyes into the back of her head. If she didn't have any self-control left, that is. Besides, she's been on her feet all day and he has talented hands. Which —  _fuck_.

"Rough shift?"

"Mhmm." A  _rough_ shift kind of feels like a pleonasm these days.

His thumbs massage at the sole of her foot slowly but firmly, and she lets her head fall back onto the armrest, her whole body going slack under his touch, practically glued to the couch. Every touch sends a flash of lightning under her skin, the flesh sensitive and hot under his fingers. It feels so good, she doesn't even realize the quiet moan leaving her lips before it's too late.

She tries to sit up, her cheeks heated with slight embarrassment, but he doesn't let go of her foot. Instead, he almost holds it tighter as he meets her gaze, dark and intense, like he could see right through her. Like he could tell what she was thinking from where he was sitting. Not good things, that was all that was on her mind, not good,  _dirty_  things. About his fingers, his hands, what else they could do.

Then the corners of his mouth turn up almost wickedly, his finger stroking the arch of her foot delicately until she squirms, trying to get away from, her body shaking with a loud guffaw.

Clarke curls her toes in a lousy attempt to try and escape his assault, but his fingers only travel further, on her yoga pants clad calf, up her thigh, up to her waist until he's tickling her side. Her sweater sliding up under his elbow. His fingers leaving a trail of heat.

"Do you want me to stop?" He inquires, the epitome of innocence — even though she's still squirming under his touch — but there's this almost dangerous hue to his voice, one she would've missed if she hadn't known him so well.

She thinks about it. Thinks about leaning just a little down, pressing her lips against his until both of them run out of breath. About shifting her knee just a little, just enough to rub against him, so she can release some of the friction between her thighs. Pulling his shirt over his head, him close, feel his heartbeat drum underneath his skin against hers. About reaching out, running her fingers over the constellation of freckles on his cheekbones. Of him inside her, his fingers digging into her hips so hard they leave marks, whispering against her neck that she's his. Taking the plunge, the risk, saying ' _fuck it all_ '. Something holds her back — something deep and dark and scared, something absolutely  _terrified_.

Clarke finally shoves his hands away, lightly kicking him to get him off of her before she starts to imagine him on top of her doing  _different_  things. He lets go of her foot so she can sit up completely, pushing her sweater back down to cover her stomach, her face probably beet red from exertion and maybe even a little arousal. " _Ass_ hole."

He pulls a face at her, only half-serious as he's already flipping through the movies on their 'watch later' playlist. "Should teach you not to hog the whole couch."

It takes her another good full five minutes to calm down her breathing, slow her heart rate and trick her body into thinking she's not turned on, before she makes up some lame excuse on why she can't just sit there and watch ' _always be my maybe_ ' with him for the rest of the evening.

"Because," is her answer from over by the front door as she shrugs into her jacket and pulls out her hair from the back, but only because the truth is much more complicated. She not only desperately wants to fuck her best friend, she wants to do it with  _feeling_. Somehow, that's worse.

The next morning when she checks her email, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and completely caught off guard this time around, there it is.

* * *

 **TO:**[cj.griffin@PolisUMC.com](mailto:c.griffin@PolisUMC.com) 

 **SUBJECT:**   _RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: wtf_

bellamy knocking you up would've been completely in character, yeah

* * *

 **TO:**[cj.griffin@PolisUMC.com](mailto:c.griffin@PolisUMC.com) 

 **SUBJECT:**   _btw_

stop being idiots please. also here is a picture of me and lincoln with one of those big scary spiders . it was hairy

* * *

In late January — when she's supposed to be eight months pregnant and she's in far too deep — Raven shows up to her house. Her hair hangs loosely around her shoulder, the ends perfectly coiled, which is new, and there's a man standing behind her that she recognizes from pictures as her boyfriend, Zeke, also new. Her cousin decided to throw her a baby shower.

"Murphy emailed me," she announces, pushing a new belly more fitting for a 8 month pregnant old into her hands, eyebrow cocked. "Purposely last minute, of course. You're lucky I'm here early."

"I'm convinced he's used his make-a-wish on ruining my life," Clarke whines, already working on getting the prosthetic she's wearing unfastened so she can switch it out for the new one. Up until this point she was just going to pretend the baby was SGA. All women carry differently, she used to float to L&D regularly.

Raven snorts, stepping inside, her boyfriend following her. He must think she's absolutely insane. Clarke offers him a hand, sheepish, introducing herself. "I'm sorry about all of this," she adds, lame. How sorry can she really be about something she's been doing since August?

"Miles, but most people call me Shaw," he smiles, friendly, warm, his other hand coming up to cover hers as well. "And I figured the less I know the better. You know, just in case I have to testify at your fraud hearing in court."

Clarke laughs, tossing the old belly into her supply closet. She likes him. "And you took that a step farther by not even telling me his real name? Go hard or go home?" She sends Raven a pointed look, who just shrugs one shoulder in response.

"He wanted me to stop calling him by his last name."

"So as a sign of protest she started using my middle name," he counters, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and squeezing the junction between her neck and shoulder until she relents and lets up a smile, swatting him away as he smirks, his eyes a kind of soft that make the blonde maybe just a little jealous. "God forbid people think she actually cares about me."

Clarke shakes her head, leading them into the kitchen to get them something to drink. She wishes Bellamy was here, so she would feel less anxious, nervous. She always feels more at ease with him around. He said he'd be as soon as classes were over, so she knows he will be soon.

"Where's the baby daddy?" Raven wonders, like she can feel the dread wash off Clarke in waves, hoisting herself on top of one of the stools in front of the kitchen island. She pokes the cookies on the counter in front of her with a wary finger, frown on her face.

They were supposed to be diaper, pacifier or onesie shaped, and Clarke had wanted to ask Bellamy for his help, but he had classes all day, so she ended up doing it herself and it just looked like a steaming pile of shit instead. So much for ' _just follow the steps on the recipe, Clarke, it doesn't get simpler than that'_.

"He's probably on his way," she decides on, after checking her phone for the time. She worries her bottom lip, looking from Raven to Shaw and back. "Do you know who he  _actually_  invited? Because I never informed my unit I was supposedly pregnant, so that'll be an awkward conversation."

Her mom couldn't come, citing work commitments, and the only cousins she actually liked, were either on some exotic island with her boyfriend — Harper — or didn't like babies — Roan — so that left nobody who cared enough to actually fly over to her state for a lousy baby shower.

Except Murphy, of course. And her worst nightmare — his sidekick, Echo.

There's a lot of people who think this pregnancy is real. Either because of her and Bellamy's posts on social media, or her mom's stupid announcement on Facebook. What was she supposed to tell all of them? That she was faking it, but please play along until my cousin perishes? Don't worry, it's a social experiment? Everything hinges on this, and if she doesn't win, she's going to have hurt and lied to a lot of people for nothing. She has to at least win, to make it worth all of it.

"No, the simpleton barely told me a time and date. I'm surprised he even knew how to find me."

"Please." Clarke rolls her eyes, checking her phone again, for good measure. "He has a crush on you. He always asks about my 'hot disabled friend' whenever I see him."

"Fair enough," Raven relents, tipping her glass before taking a sip from the lemonade. Like,  _of course he has a crush on me_. "But just because I'm a cripple doesn't mean I'd lower my standards to him."

Valid point.

In the end, there's just a few of her friends, Bellamy's friends and co-workers (because he did  _not_  think of soft blocking them in time) and Murphy who somehow convinced Echo to come along as well. She has to make up a story on the spot about a malaria outbreak on her unit as to why there's zero work associates from the hospital. A nightmare.

It goes relatively well at first. They play some games, like sniffing what kind of poop-looking candy is stuck on the inside of different diapers, or having them decorate onesies for her while she nods and smiles. People want to touch her belly, tell her how pretty she looks, ask her about the nursery and when they're getting married, because for some reason a pregnancy allows people to be nosey and invasive like there's no tomorrow. At least she managed to get a chain email out saying they didn't want presents — but if they could a donation to doctors without borders or the local foundation helping kids like Madi would be nice — so she doesn't have to feel stressed about returning those later, or guilty about the money and effort they put into them.

One of Bellamy's coworkers is just telling her how painful the birth of her son is when she decides to nod along and look for him in the crowd of people. She finds him standing next to the fireplace, cradling a drink in his hand. He's still in his work clothes, which means a nice maroon button down and a tie, even wearing his glasses today. The sight makes her stomach flip — he's always gorgeous, of course, that's not it. It's just nice, grounding, to find a little sanity in between all this insanity happening everywhere around her. Then a hand lands on his, and Clarke follows the arm to see who's talking to him.

It's Echo — her boney, perfectly manicured hand touching him. It doesn't matter that what's between them, Bellamy and Clarke, isn't real, he's hers regardless. Or they're in the middle of pretending he is. It's just — it's not  _good_. It's not right.

Clarke's eyes zero in on two of them. They're standing close. Both laughing, her head thrown back dramatically, a look on his face the blonde recognizes all too well, seen it on him many times before.  _Skinny, dark-haired, leggy, supermodels_. The piercing sound of Echo's giggle-like laughter making the hairs on the back of Clarke's neck stand up straight, even through all the noise. Her hand slides up to his shoulder, then trails down to rest on his chest. He doesn't even try and push her away, not even when she starts tugging on his tie playfully. Clarke can't feel her face.

Before she can stop herself, her feet are moving over to them, his co-worker long forgotten with a quick 'excuse me' under her breath. She clears her throat loudly, catching both of them off guard. "Bellamy. Can you help me with the cake?" She nods her head towards the door, her voice even, but demanding enough. "In the kitchen?"

"Sure," he says, putting his glass on top of the mantle and shooting her cousin an apologetic look as he starts following her into the kitchen. "I hope you bought this one though, because those cookies—"

The door of the kitchen slams shut behind them, and she spins on her heels, cutting him off mid-sentence. Her eyes narrow, her arms crossing over her chest accusingly. "I saw you. With Echo."

"Yeah," he snorts, humored, like he still doesn't quite get how serious she is, his eyes still lit up with amusement as he leans his hip against the counter. "Considering you just snuck up on us, I'm aware."

Clarke grits her teeth, doesn't even understand all this raging anger herself, the tight feeling in her chest, the cold in her bloodstream, where it's coming from all of a sudden. "That's not what I mean."

Something harder washes over his face as he straightens up, recognition clicking into place on his face, voice calm and unbothered as he presses, "What does it matter?"

"It matters," she dismisses him, shaking her head lightly as her fingers dig into the back of her arms. "We have to keep up appearances."

"Appearances?" He spits, pushing himself off the counter, and she's never seen him be so  _angry_. Not with her. His shoulders rigid, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. "Right."

He turns away from her, pressing the heels of his hands into his face, knocking his glasses askew. Clarke grabs him by the wrist, tugs on it to make him stay, look back at her. He yanks it back like he's been burned and she has to swallow hard, to keep from feeling like she's dying, like something precious is breaking right in front of her. So she choses irritated impatience, instead. "What's your problem all of the sudden?"

"The problem is I don't want to do this anymore, Clarke," he snaps, heated, then takes a step back from her, forces himself to take a deep breath as the tension between them builds, branches out to something unfamiliar, painful. His voice is quieter now, on the point of breaking, and she doesn't understand, "I can't. It's physically killing me."

"We're almost there. We've come so far. We can't — we  _can't_ give up now," she argues, logical. They've risked so much. She risked him. She has to see this through. Desperate, she pleads, "We can't."

"That's what I keep telling myself, too," he counters, then slides a hand into his hair, tugs on his curls, frustrated. He meets her gaze, face hard, determination washing over it more and more which each word he speaks. "But it  _never_ ends. We hold hands, and we kiss, and we even sleep together in the same bed — what if your hypothetical due date passes?" She blinks at him, trying to focus on taking calm breaths, but he seems frantic for a different reaction from her. "Huh? What do we do then?"

"Bellamy — I don't understand." Clarke searches his face, tries to put the puzzle pieces together, see the whole picture, connect the dots, licking her lips. "I thought we agreed — agreed to see this through. We both knew what it meant." Did she really though? If she thinks back on it now? She has to think of the endgame now. "We have to go out there and put up a united front."

He scoffs, turning his face away from her as he shakes his head lightly, fingers curling into a fist at his side. "I'm a real fucking person, Clarke. I'm  _right_  here. Do I have to say anything about this? Do my feelings even matter? Or is it just what you want? What you need?"

It's like a slap in the face.

"Bellamy—" her voice croaks, and she takes a step forward, closer to him, only to watch him stumble back, a dull throbbing settling behind her sternum.

"No. I'm done." He opens his mouth, searching her face, then shakes his head again, finally settling on a hard, final, "I'm  _done_."

Her heart breaks in her chest as she lets out a sob she didn't know she was holding in, turning away from him as he storms out the door. She quickly wipes at her eyes, forces herself to take a deep breath, even though they're coming in quick and hard, her eyes stinging painfully.

How is she supposed to do this without him? She can't. She doesn't even want to. He was always there for her, would never leave her. Did she make him leave? Did she push him too far? Should she have tried to listen more? Or listen less, looked at the signs more? Was he another one on the long list of people who got worse after meeting Clarke Griffin? This whole thing is so fucked up. And she hates herself. She hates herself so much she feels nauseous.

When she walks out of the kitchen, the room is dead quiet, everybody staring at her — because  _of fucking course_  they heard everything, watched Bellamy leave, are seeing whatever degree kind of mess she looks like right now — and all she can do is stand there, fingers flexing at her sides.

"I'm not dying," Murphy announces, out of nowhere, breaking the silence. Clarke just blinks at him, too numb from her fight with Bellamy to even really fully process what he's saying.

"Something smelt fishy," Raven admits, offering somewhat of an explanation at the wary look on Clarke's face. "So when he pulled out his phone earlier, Zeke latched onto his bluetooth connect so I could piggyback onto his cellular provider and crack his ip—"

"Read the room, Reyes," Miles clears his throat, uneasily.

Her friend rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I hacked into his bank account. There is no money."

Clarke looks from Murphy, to Raven, and back, zeroing in on his disgusting sneer as she feels a resentful lust for violence wash over her all at once, hijacking every thought and feeling and nerve in her body as everything falls into place. He lied. She starts to storm over there, ready to pounce on him. She's so angry, seething, seeing red. So angry. She hurt herself and she hurt Bellamy and it was all for nothing anyway, because he's not even fucking dying! She manages to get one hard punch in before Miles is pulling her back, her back firmly against his chest.

"What is wrong with you?" She screams, her voice raw as she tries to fight her way out of Miles grip on her waist. Maybe it's misplaced, maybe she's deflecting, maybe she's actually mad at her herself, maybe she's overreacting — but all she feels is hatred, vibrating through every cell of her body.

"What's wrong with  _me_?" He barks back, exasperated, spit flying from his mouth as he holds a hand against his eye. "You're the psycho  _pretending_  to be pregnant!"

Clarke closes her eyes, feels the tears drip down her cheeks as she puts up her hands, stops fighting, starts apologizing, trying to make sense of it, trying to justify it to everyone, to herself, "I needed the money. For Madi. For her friends. To build them a hospital, to give them back a life that's not just pain and suffering and trying to survive. Life should be about more than that."

"You're making me cry,  _princess_ ," he spits, venomously, a stabbing pain passing through her chest at the mention of the nickname. "Does it really matter what your intentions were? You're certifiably insane."

She shakes her head, feels her finger shake as her hand comes up to push her hair back from her face. "I'm —" Her eyes dart around the room. And she feels like she might throw up as she realizes who she's looking for. He's not here. "I'm sorry. I need a minute."

She turns on her heels, makes a beeline for the fire-escape as her chest heaves up and down erratically. Once outside, she rips off the fake pouch, stomps on it, kicks it away. Later, she'll ritually burn it. But for now, this will have to do.

Letting out another sob, she sinks down onto one of the steps, taking her head in her hands. He was right. She is insane. The lengths she will go through. The look on his face.  _Do my feelings even matter?_  Of course they do, she'd wanted to say, I care about you more than I care about myself. But that was just it, wasn't it? She couldn't say it out loud, didn't allow herself to do it.

After a while, somebody comes outside, metal creaking under their weight with every step. She doesn't have to look up to recognize the sandals and unclipped toenails belong to none other than her favourite cousin.

He doesn't say anything, just squeezes in beside her. It's a tight fit.

Clarke sits up, wipes at her cheeks with her wrists. Bitingly, she remarks, "Surprised you found your way here, considering it's not exactly  _wheelchair accessible_."

He clasps his hands together in between his knees. There's a red mark around his eye, the edges starting to darken. Good. "You've always been such a hypocrite, Griffin. That's why everyone leaves you eventually."

Clarke huffs, the sting less knowing who it comes from. It's quiet, tense, digging her fingernails into her palms as she goes over everything in her head.

"Why did you do it?" She snaps, after a moment or so, but most of the heat is lost. It gets tiresome to hate him after a while, easier to fall back into an always slumbering aversion.

He seems to debate it for a second, but then goes with the truth. "I met a girl. I sent her letters while she was in jail. Nothing serious, just some burglaries. Few counts of battery. Impersonating an officer."

"Match made in heaven," she mumbles, thinking back to his multiple stints to juvy, but he ignores her, continues on.

"We want to be together, but she's not allowed to leave the state, and she has no place to stay, nowhere to go, no family to fall back on. I wanted to buy her a house, so we could live there together. I figured faking an illness would get me some cash one way or another. Then I could just pretend I actually died so you would all leave me alone."

Clarke clenches her jaw, makes an indignant sound in the back of her throat. "Didn't peg you for such a romantic."

For half a second, something a lot like loathing flashes across his eyes as he narrows them, but then he grinds his teeth, soldiers on, "I tried to invest the money I got from the crowdfunding into this app I thought would blow up, but it backfired. I tried to play it a bit longer, milk some more money out of it, but pity runs out. I figured if I went at it long enough, the family would feel sorry for me, and I could swindle money from them for the funeral, or something."

"Or something." Clarke sighs, rubbing at the corners of her eyes, fingers dropping down caked in mascara. Against her better judgement, she inquires, "Who's this girl?"

Murphy pulls out his ratched nokia, the screen cracked, the battery being held together with duct tape. He unlocks it by pressing two buttons, pulling up a grainy picture of a gorgeous girl with a latin phrase tattooed right above her brow, one of her hands a prosthesis. Or she thinks so, it's hard to tell when the photo looks like it was made on a calculator. A little proudly, corners of his lips turned up just a little, he mutters, "Emori."

"She's out of your league," she counters, leaning back against the stairs as she looks out at the sky in front of them, a deep purple color now. He makes an agreeable noise, copying her line of sight.

It's silent for a moment. Then he pats her on the back awkwardly. "If it makes you feel better, even if I did have it, I was never going to give you the money anyway."

She frowns. "You're a horrible person."

"Well, you're the one who faked a pregnancy to sham a dying man out of his money so I guess we're even." He has a point, not that she'll ever admit it. Murphy runs a hand through his greasy hair, uses the other to pull a pack out of his jeans, holds it out to her, "Cigarette?"

Clarke scoffs, then has to laugh at the absurdity of it all. What the fuck has her life become.

Back inside, Raven made sure everyone left, for which she is thankful. Tells her, "White on white violence is rough," then ushers her into a steaming hot shower she'd turned on moments earlier. It's nice, helps her clear her head, come up with a game plan.

Clarke shows up at his door later that night, in her hands a box of apology cupcakes that were supposed to be for the gender reveal, but had just multicolored sprinkles on the inside because they were going to do this whole ' _fuck gender and the enforced roles that come along with it_ ' thing. "Sorry," she offers, as soon as he opens the door and takes her in. She can taste bile in the back of her throat, sick about how that's all that comes out when she's thought about all she's wanted to say a thousand times over by now.

"I guess it's over then," Bellamy presumes, casual, leaning against the door, eyes dropping down to her stomach, which is now back to it's former flatness. His face is unreadable, which kills her.

"It is," Clarke says, soft, feeling stupid standing there with a box of cupcakes all of a sudden. Who did she think she was, trying to fix this with a box of fucking cupcakes? She wants the ground to swallow her whole. "And it should've been over the minute you wanted out."

"It's — I should've been more clear. When I talked to Octavia —" He shakes his head, cutting himself off. His eyes are impossibly gentle, and she hates him for it. She doesn't want him to feel bad for her, forgive her just because. She wants — she wants something else. "It doesn't matter. I've wanted to quit for a while now, but I thought I could power through it for Madi."

"It's okay," she says, shoulders straightening resolutely, "I'll make it happen one way or another."

"It's not like you're not dedicated," he counters, ribbing, and despite feeling like she wants to die, she cracks a smile, feeling her body loosening, her muscles relaxing, her heart slamming less like  _flight_ , and more like fight.

He grins, small and timid, but a grin, then opens the door wider, nodding his head for her to come inside. "I have something to show you."

She nods, stepping inside his apartment. He disappears into the living room while she stays behind to take off her shoes and coat, put down the cupcakes on the cabinet by the door. She might just take them home and eat them all, if this goes sideways, better to have them ready next to her escape route.

When she finally follows him inside the seating area — scratching his cat Mars under his chin on the way there as it rubs it's head against her leg — Bellamy's getting out his laptop, settling it in his lap as he plops down on the couch. She sits down beside him after a long moment of thinking it over, keeping a considerable distance. Clarke keeps her gaze focused on the ' _would jesus own a gun'_  sticker covering his camera. After some typing and clicking, he turns the screen towards her.

It takes her a while to process what she's even looking at.  _GoFundme_? She looks back up at Bellamy, her chest feeling tight as her brows furrow together, searching his face for an explanation. "At first, donations were sparse and little at a time. But then I told Miller about it, and he basically told me that I should milk our whole situation for what is was worth. I figured we were in this deep, what did it matter?" He pulls up his twitter DMs, something she didn't realize he was even still on, opening up an old chat.

 

> **call me nathan one more time**  - @natemiller
> 
> _Will use my minority cards this once and band together gay and black twitter, kumbaya_
> 
> **call me nathan one more time**  - @natemiller
> 
> Shared a tweet.

The tweet is a thread from Bellamy explaining their crazy situation, pictures of them and Madi attached every few tweets or so, the link for the GoFundMe linked at the end. It's quoted by Miller with ' _the things a het will do for love. help my friend bellamy pls aint nothing wrong with him he's just out there claiming dad rights to babies that don't exist_ '. The original tweet in turn has been shared almost 150 thousand times, likes even double the number. People are calling her a leather jacket chaotic evil disaster bi — whatever that may signify — and fighting about what zodiac sign Bellamy is.

Bellamy shrugs as he closes the tab. "It blew up and donations just kept rolling in. They still are. We're almost at 300k."

"I don't know what to say," she croaks out, reaching up to wipe at the tears that formed in the corners of her eyes. It still feels like it's a joke. "Thank you." Her fingers twitch, trying to keep from reaching out and hugging him.

"No worries," he insists, smiling almost shyly as he ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. She's not used to him like this. "Miller did most of the work."

"No.  _Thank you_ ," she presses, hoping he can still read her well enough to understand how serious she is, in how many ways it rings true, all of it, how sorry she is. "I mean it. You didn't have to do any of this."

He brushes her off, closes the laptop and puts it down on the coffee table as he avoids eye-contact, "I mostly did it for M —"

"I swear if you finish that sentence I'm going to punch you," Clarke cuts him off, heated, for a second forgetting she's here to apologize, and if it comes down to it, beg for forgiveness.

He chuckles, the sound warm and heartily, and Clarke plays with a loose thread on her sweater, tries to keep her voice even. "All this time I told myself the same thing. I was doing it for Madi." She meets his gaze, almost panicked as she quickly adds, "And I was. Of course, I was." Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and she swallows heavily, mouth dry from nerves. "But I can't sit here and look you in the eye and pretend like all this time I felt nothing. Like everything was just for show and I didn't enjoy getting to feel what it was like to be loved by someone like you."

It was both the easiest thing she'd ever had to do, and the hardest.

"Clarke—" He says, dismissive, like he can already tell where this is going. Like he can feel there's a rejection attached somewhere at the end. There isn't. Not this time.

"Not," she cuts him off, desperate, desperate to not let herself talk her way out of it again, "Not someone  _like_ you.  _You_." She smiles, watery, putting her hand on top of his knee. "You're so special, Bellamy." She sniffs, slides closer to him, knee knocking against his thigh, and she knows how this sounds, knows she's giving him hope, that she can't hurt him again, that she has to follow through even if she's petrified, "I've always known that, but I guess part of me was just scared to admit  _how_  special exactly."

"Clarke," he repeats again, his voice rough as his brown eyes search hers, his gaze heavy, dark. A tick in his jaw like he's holding back from saying more.

Even if she's petrified. "I love you," she concludes, and then decides that's not enough of an explanation. Not when later, she can still take it back, spin it like she loves him like a friend. "And the past six months I've wanted nothing more than for all of it to be  _real_. For you to love me back the way I love you. To be the person who makes you the happiest. To maybe someday even have —," her voice shakes, her fingers tremble, her brave face falters even with the smile she's trying so hard to keep on her face, "Have your children. Which — I know I'm skipping like all the steps in between and —"

He kisses her then, hands coming up to frame her face. He tastes like salt, which might be her own doing. His hands tangle in her hair, tilting her face up to get better access to her mouth. Clarke reacts almost immediately, her mouth moving against his, sucking his lower lip between her teeth and biting. He groans, pulling her in more tightly by wrapping one arm around her back, practically lifting her onto his lap. He slants his mouth against her lips, runs his tongue along the seam until she opens up from him, their tongues sweeping against each other.

Her fingers slide up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulders so she has enough leverage to put her knees on either side of him. After ages of wanting, needing, loving — she finally gets to do this. Kiss him. Touch him. Have it be real.

Finally, he pulls back, inhaling heavily as his eyes swung to hers, heat blazing, pinning her frozen in place. God, she's so fucking in love with him it hurts.

"Clarke," he says again, voice so low it tugs at her heated core, makes her breath hitch, makes her blink down at him rapidly, trying to clear the haze of lust from her mind. "The only reason I wanted out is because I felt like I was using you. I felt sick. Like, I was getting something out of it, and you weren't. I felt like a piece of shit the whole time."

Her senses are practically overwhelmed by him, all of him, by the fact he makes her feel so much, makes her feel so safe, makes her feel brave enough to face it all. Brave enough to check, "But you love me?"

He laughs, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, confirming in the space between their mouths that, "I love you."

Then she leans forward, blood pounding in her ears, closing the gap between their mouths and curving herself into him as best as possible. He practically growls at her eagerness, hands coming to rest on her hips, sliding underneath the material of her sweater. It's messy, sloppy, uncoordinated kissing, but it's real, so real, and it's good, so good.

He leans back slightly, and then like he can't help himself pecks her mouth, pressing small kisses to the corner of her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her temples, before pulling back completely to look at her with an intensity that's so Bellamy that she practically shudders under his gaze.

His mouth curves up slowly, one warm hand disappearing from underneath her sweater to push back her hair from her face. Then he leans forward, kisses her softly one more time. So soft, her stomach flips, a warmth spreading from the middle of her chest to her fingertips.

She's done with soft, though, she wants  _more_. Clarke reaches for the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one smooth move, a tense silence forming between the two of them as she's left in just a red lacey bra. Her pulse races as Bellamy's eyes take her in, darkening slightly at her choice of bra no doubt about it, before moving back up to meet her gaze.

She can't help but feel nervous, despite seeing how badly he wants her, feeling the evidence of it against her core if she shifts just right. Trying to even the score a little, she starts tugging on his shirt.

He leans closer to her, trying to help her by grabbing it by the collar at the back of his neck, lifting it over his head. Her mouth feels dry, her whole skin buzzing with a certain kind of impatience — it's not even like she's never seen him without a shirt before. They've been to a beach. He's helped her move. They went to college together, all college guys are shirtless 80% of the time. It's just that she can reach out, put her hand over his heart, drag it down until he pupils are completely blown out and he shivers, putting his hand on the back of her neck as he pulls her towards him, latching his mouth onto the sensitive skin of her jaw. Her breasts brush against his chest, hardening her nipples as she desperately tries to create any sort of friction by grinding down onto him.

Suddenly, he bands one arm around the back of her thighs, lifting her up from the couch — a crazy display of strength — as he walks them over to his bedroom, pushing her onto his bed. Her heart thunders as he looms over her, leaning down to plant another kiss on her swollen mouth, knee coming up between her legs, aggravatingly close to her wet heat.

She's already trying to unbuckle his belt in between them, groaning into his mouth as it proves to be more difficult than she thought. He lets out a huff off laughter against her lips, pulling back so he can do it himself, kick his jeans off completely.

Her fingers hastily move to lift her own pants over her hips, then her back, unclasping her bra and flinging it off somewhere to the side. Bellamy swallows hard as he takes her in again, then leans down, presses the softest of kisses against her pulse point, making her stomach swoop with fondness as he murmurs, "You're so beautiful."

His huge palms slide over her sides, one of them coming up to rest on her breast, engulfing it, rubbing his thumb over her painfully hard nipple, pinching it, as his mouth travels down from her neck, nipping and sucking at the long column of her throat, leaving bruising marks in his wake, to her other breast, showering it in equally as much attention. She's practically writhing against him, fingers grasping at the curls on the back of his neck. More, more, more.

He seems to understand what she wants without words, knee coming up again to push against her heat, making her arch into him with a loud cry at the multitude of sensations attacking her body from all angles. "Bellamy," she gasps, cheeks completely flushed by now, pulling him back up to her face and latching into his mouth with a languid kiss.

"Fuck," he groans, guttural, leaning his weight on his elbows, chests pressed flush against each other. "You don't know how many times I imagined you saying my name like that."

Her mouth curves into a smile as one hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb moving over his soft, freckled skin. Like she can't quite believe this is all happening just yet. He looks at her with a gentleness that tugs on her heartstrings, breath leaving her, makes her want to feel him inside of her already.

His hands travel over her stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps in it's wake, and soon he's palming her through her panties, making her grind against the heel of his hand longingly. She almost cries out at the loss of contact, frustrated, before his thumbs hook into her panties, dragging them down her legs. She helps him by lifting her hips, heartbeat fastening at the cool air hitting her burning core. Her eyes close as he goes back to kissing her neck, making heat coil low in her belly. She almost  _wants_  him to leave marks.

His hand snakes back in between her thighs, testing her with one finger first, a proud smirk forming on his lips at the slickness he finds. She says his name again, more commanding this time, even if she feels like a complete mess underneath him, and he shoves two fingers inside of her without warning, fucking her hard. She gasps with pleasure, arching against him, enjoying the feel of the fingers of his free hand digging into her hip to keep her steady, to keep her in place.

She comes hard, and fast, already too wound up from kissing him, from being this close to him for the first time, that it's too hard to hold back. She clings to him for solace as she comes unravelled, clings to him for more, her walls clenching emptily trying to fill the hollow ache between her thighs.

Clarke feels him trying to move further down, knows just what he's thinking, kissing down her collarbone, and God, does she want it, wants it more than anything, to have him taste her, to taste hm, make up for lost time, but there's time for that later. Instead, she pulls on his boxers until they finally move down his ass, hardness springing free against her stomach as he kicks it off the rest of the way.

Her eyes almost roll into the back of her head, but she doesn't want his ego to get too big, so she withholds, manages just the smallest of gasps. She keeps their gazes locked as she flips them over, whole body drumming madly in anticipation, a wave of wetness pooling at the sight underneath her as she pushes him back into the soft mattress. Transfixed at the way his eyes roam over her own naked body, on top of his, the dark look on his face, her hands finding balance splayed across on his chest.

"Condom?" He pants, a sheen layer of sweat already covering his skin, already blindly reaching for his nightstand.

Clarke swats his arm down, trailing her fingers down to his hand until she can connect their fingers. "This may be a funny thing to say considering the situation we were in before, but I'm on the pill."

He laughs warm, and happy, and quiet, and, "Immaculate conceptions beat even the best of the contraceptives," that she can't help but lean down and press her lips against his again. They kiss for a while, her hand leaving his to bury it in his hair instead, pulling him in tighter.

She sits up a little, the new angle of skin touching skin making both of them hiss, suddenly reminding them what they're actually in the middle of. He squeezes her hip, admits, sheepish, "I haven't been with anyone since I last got tested."

She nods, granting, "Me neither."

"Okay," he concludes with a small sigh, almost like he's talking himself into it, like he's mentally preparing himself for what's about to happen. And she repeats the sentiment, doing the same for herself, adding, "I trust you," just because she knows he likes hearing those kind of proclamations.

Bellamy groans, string of expletives leaving his mouth as she reaches between them to grasp his cock in her hand, softly stroking it a few times before dragging it across her folds, slicking it with her own wetness, the feeling making both of their breaths halt. She bites down onto her bottom lip, slowly sinking onto him, gasping, shivering, momentarily having to stop at the sensory overload, wondering if she can even take him all. It's been a while, her last hook-up that involved a cock even longer.

"You can do it, baby," he murmurs, rough, and she feels her whole body responding to his voice like it always has, feels her tensed muscles losing, feels her enter him just a little more, feels her walls stretching around him as her breath hitches.

Before she knows it, Clarke feels it, feels him, entirely, buried deep inside her, completely to the hilt. She has taken him in, can feel him throbbing inside of her, a sudden need to move making her lean down and connect their mouths for a sloppy kiss before she begins to ride him, his head dropping back so he could growl in pleasure, a sound pulling deep inside of her.

The heat inside of her coiled tighter and tighter, getting close to snapping, could feel he was close, too. One of his hands snuck in between them, circling her clit, and it wasn't long before she could feel him swell and he was spilling inside of her, cursing her name, the thought of it sending another jolt through her body, her thighs starting to tremble wildly until suddenly — the coil snapped. With a loud whimper, she exploded into her orgasm, fingernails digging into his skin as she squeezed her eyes shut, shaking as he continued moving his fingers, drawing out the waves and waves of pleasure washing over her entire body.

Clarke practically slumps over on top of him, their breathing slowing down gradually as he presses kisses against her damp hair, one hand trailing down her spine slowly. Finally, she lifts herself off him, pulling him out of her, a groan escaping her before she could stop it. An instant heaviness settles in her muscles already — a good kind of soreness, one she will enjoy thinking about in the morning.

She settles into his side as he slings his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, air cooling their heated skin. Clarke looks up at him, the happiness and sheer adoration in his eyes making her heart clench, making her lean up and capture his lips in another sweet kiss.

"That was —" She tries, but gives up, shaking her head lightly as she buries her face into his shoulder. He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head. "Yeah."

Once she can kind of feel her legs again, she opens up one of his drawers and pulls out a shirt, disappearing into the bathroom to pee and clean up. When she comes back, he's sitting with his head against the headboard, holding out a bottle of water for her. He's such an idiot. Only he would bring in refreshments after a hook-up.

Clarke crawls on top of the bed and accepts it graciously, taking a grateful sip from it as she settles against him. She's more just hanging against him, the back of her left shoulder leaning against him, half in his lap, his hand coming up to rest on the junction of her hip and thigh as his shirt slides up slightly, thumb caressing her soft skin leisurely.

"I'm spent," she breathes, taking another swig of the bottle before putting the cap back on, tossing it down beside her on the bed.

"Well, you did do most of the work, princess."

Gleefully, glancing over at him quickly, she suggests, "I'm sure you'll more than make up for it next time."

He smirks, his warm fingers moving further up her side, already breathing in like he's going to say something ridiculously dirty that she would love to hear, but first things first.

"What am I going to tell my mom?" His hand stills on her waist, beating his head back against the headboard with a groan. She chuckles, voice raspy. "I'm  _serious_. We convinced a lot of people that I was actually pregnant."

"They'll have heard through the grapevine by now," he reasons, pressing his mouth against her shoulder. Teasingly, he adds, "And if necessary, you can just tell your mom we're working on a real one."

She elbows him in the ribs, folding her hand over his knee as he drags it up to his chest. "Shut up." She turns to look at him over her shoulder, "Maybe we should try and do it in the right order this time. Date, move in together, maybe get Mars a brother or sister, sign one of those certificates claiming you're legally taken,  _then_  discuss possible offspring."

"Probably for the best," he relents, cocking his eyebrow skeptically. "You'd get married?"

"If it's something you really want I'm open to discussion."

Bellamy tries hard to let his mouth curve up in a smile. "How mature of you."

"Please, I'm the adult between the two of us."

"You can't even cook a decent meal."

"I'm breaking gender stereotypes."

He rolls his eyes, scoffing. "You're impossible."

Clarke laughs, shifts so she is less on top of him, and more leaning against him, so he can actually see her face. She fingers his collarbone, fixing her gaze on his brown bronzed skin, likes how it contrasts so starkly with her peaches-and-cream complexion, how small her hand looks on his chest. "Have you really not been with anyone since Gina?"

"Considering she broke up with me because she thought I was in love with you. No."

Her eyes snap up to his, pulse fluttering quickly. "Oh."

"Yeah. That's why —" He sighs, sound soft and resigned, sitting up a little. "It's why I thought you could never feel the same way about me. That's why I wanted more than anything to move on. If I couldn't make it happen with someone like Gina, it wasn't going to happen regardless. So I just figured, why try?"

"That's —" She pretends to look for the right word, eyes squinted. "So pathetic."

"Thanks," he remarks dryly, making a show of picking up the arm draped around his waist and throwing it off.

She chuckles lowly, pouting for a second before schooling her face back into a merciless expression. He's still her best friend, even if they're in love, and she's going to make fun of him. "Sorry. Just — what were you going to do? Be single forever? Never get laid again? Get seven more cats? Platonically push me around in my wheelchair, clean my dentures for me?"

"Don't underestimate my dedication to you," he presses, a slow, deliberate smirk forming on his mouth that she'd love nothing more than to wipe off, "Besides, there was always my left hand —"

"Don't," she cuts him off, snickering as she tries to bury her head into his neck, embarrassed for him and his stupid joke, thinking about how it just feels right, in this bed with him. How she's still absolutely petrified, but can find calmness in the chaos, with him by her side. Knows she can talk to him about everything, even this.

"I'll have you know my left hand is incredibly talented," he counters, turning them over so he's hovering above her, one hand sliding up her thigh, finger tracing the skin on her lower belly, just below her navel.

"Yeah?" She asks, cheeks already getting heated, biting down on her bottom lip. The sight makes him groan, lowly. "Just that one?"

"No." He's already pressing kisses down her neck, wherever he can reach, soft vibrations of him murmuring against her skin making goosebumps appear all over her body. "But I believe we discussed me making something up to you?"

"If you insist."

**Author's Note:**

> feel so iliterate reading these back but whatever. wanted to write clarke telling her mom and shit but in the end i was just like fuck abbys feelings tbh? we all know bellarke gonna be hermits after they get together anyway so who cares about the ppl they've lied to lmao also its fic im sorry if none of it made sense but also you made it to this point so whos the real clown
> 
> anyway hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell, prompt me, or beg beliza for wedding pictures . begging, the most powerful force in the universe besides love<3


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